


Bandom Ficlets

by AirgiodSLV



Category: Bandom
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-02-22
Updated: 2011-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:35:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 68
Words: 62,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirgiodSLV/pseuds/AirgiodSLV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Being a collection of bandom ficlets posted in various places over the years.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Intuition

**Author's Note:**

> Being a collection of bandom ficlets posted in various places over the years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> William/Gabe/(Victoria)
> 
> A first-line ficlet for [](http://harborshore.livejournal.com/profile)[**harborshore**](http://harborshore.livejournal.com/) , only slightly late. :-)

William is waiting for her when her set is done, standing side stage and smiling. She’d known he was coming to see the show; the Academy boys have a habit of turning up whenever they’re in the neighborhood, and Gabe had said something earlier about being plus-one for the next few venues. William’s the only one who flies out to New York with any regularity, so she’d guessed it would be him, a suspicion confirmed by Twitter when he’d updated from the airport.

“Victoria,” he says, opening his arms to give her a hug, even though he’s wearing a crisp button-down and her bangs are wilting in sweaty strands against her forehead. “Good show.”

“You should have shown up earlier,” she answers after they separate, picking her damp blouse away from her breasts to air out a little. “You could have come on.”

“Next time,” he says, although she doesn’t think he means it. Taking this break is hard for him, she knows, not being on stage and performing. He lives and breathes this lifestyle; he must feel conflicted watching them onstage without a tour of his own scheduled for the near future.

“Are you coming out with us?” she asks. She thinks there are vague plans to hit a local club, probably just to dance and get wasted in the VIP section. With William along, they might change it up, or maybe not. William tends to close off in clubs; too many strangers in close proximity, too much noise. But then Gabe does love to show his friends a good time.

He sticks his hands in his pockets; in the jeans he’s wearing, he can only manage to fit in four fingers to the knuckle in each pocket. It hunches his shoulders a little, makes him look younger than he is. “I was actually wondering if you wanted to get a drink, before the chaos starts.”

She does the calculations in her head. Showers for everyone, if they take them, signing autographs, disco naps. They probably won’t hit a club until one at the earliest.

“Sure,” she answers. “Let me just get a quick shower.”

“I’ll be around,” he replies. Just in time, as it happens; Ryland spots them and calls William’s name over the general post-show din, and then Gabe’s crowing and pushing his way through the cluster of techs and musicians to wrap William up in a bear hug, with Alex and Nate not far behind him.

She claims the shower while everyone else is distracted, and William finds her in the green room just as she’s applying fresh lipstick.

“Ready?” he asks, and she always is, as a general rule, so it only takes one quick look at herself in the mirror before she’s grabbing her bag and heading out after him into the city.

They find a cute little retro bar two blocks away, too quickly and easily for it to be a place William hasn’t been before. He leans against the bar while they peruse the menus with half-hearted interest, leaving the single available stool for her until another one opens up.

“Cocktails, beer or hard liquor?” she asks, flipping to the brightly-colored page of fruity drinks with clever names. She’s ambivalent for the most part, and doesn’t mind sticking with whatever he’s having. One of the things she enjoys about drinking with William is that he weighs all of eighty pounds and therefore they tend to have roughly the same tolerance level. Victoria can match anyone shot-for-shot to a point, but the guys in her band have an unnatural ability to put away alcohol like it’s tap water, Gabe especially, so she always seems to end up two drinks shy of their limit. She and William tend to start sliding down the bar giggling at approximately the same time, which is something she appreciates.

“Cocktails,” he answers, leaning in to be heard over the music and background roar of conversation. “I want something blue. How’s tour?”

They make small talk for a while, gossip about mutual acquaintances and tour stories, the stuff both of them know inside and out. She’s mildly curious about what they’re doing here, without the rest of the band, although she’s not complaining. William does this every once in a while, takes her out somewhere so it’s just the two of them, although the outings tend to be more geared toward shopping and eating lunch somewhere that isn’t fast food or a gas station. They also tend to be when he’s spending more than a few days with them, and not on his first night in town.

He’s never shown any signs of an ulterior motive – although with William it’s hard to tell – and they do genuinely appreciate each other’s company. Even so, it’s not really a surprise when they’re selecting fruity drink round three and William says, “I have a confession to make.”

She’s had two drinks and he’s canted in toward her, too-pretty with serious eyes, which is just enough for her to skip over playing coy and guess, “You’re secretly in love with me.”

His expression turns to shock and honest surprise, so she believes him when he says, “No. What?”

Which means it must be the other thing, then. “You’re secretly in love with Gabe,” she tries.

He still looks shocked, but this time it’s a different kind. Got it in two. She waits for him to stutter himself out, smirking a little around her swizzle stick. When he finally drifts to a verbal halt, it’s with a question in his eyes that he can’t ask aloud without confirming her guess. She answers it anyway.

“Female intuition. Men don’t spend this much time hanging out with someone attractive without sex being involved somehow, unless they’re not interested for some reason.” She knows that much, and she’s confident enough in herself without bragging to know that William finds her attractive. The fact that he’d never made a move meant that either he was still biding his time waiting for the right moment, or that there was someone else in the picture.

“You are a very attractive woman,” he assures her, with endearing earnestness. It’s such a William thing to do, being sidetracked from a revelation of secret gay love by the fear that she’d somehow misinterpret that deduction as an insult. She laughs, and their hands nudge each other on the bar, friendly and reassuring.

“You’re not as subtle as you think you are,” she says, even though he is. She hadn’t been sure until his reaction had confirmed it, and she’s just as certain that Gabe has no idea. Although she suspects that might also be because Gabe is doing the same dance on his side, still feigning friendship when there’s more going on in his eyes.

“It’s new,” he says, which she’d known as well. Possibly inevitable and a long time coming, but new nonetheless. “Is it obvious?”

“No,” she admits, combing two fingers through her bangs until they fall the way she likes around her eyes. “My third guess was going to be that you were secretly in love with both of us.”

His smile is slightly tentative, but still genuine. “Sounds complicated.” He shakes his head. “You would have been wrong, though.” She arches an eyebrow at him and his smile widens a fraction, curling up with just a touch of rueful around the corners. “I was going to say that I’d always wanted to try a Cosmo.”

She’s startled, enough that it takes her a second before her own smile comes out and she starts laughing, bringing William along with her. There has to be irony in that, she’s sure of it. “I won’t tell anyone,” she promises, sneaking her hand over his enough to link their pinky fingers. “Buy me a drink and I’ll listen to all your secrets.”

“Only one?” he answers, and the crinkling lines around his eyes mean they’re fine, this isn’t going to get awkward unless something else makes it so. She doesn’t think that will happen anytime soon. By her estimation, William and Gabe have a long way to dance around each other still before either of them will man up and take the first step, and her guesses about these things are seldom ever wrong.

“We can trade,” she suggests, because William is the only one who doesn’t make stupid puns about Victoria’s Secrets, so with him she’s willing to make the offer.

“Good, because I’d need more than three guesses,” he says, and raises a hand for the bartender before glancing back down at her. “Cosmo?”

“Make it two,” she says. When both of their phones go off at the same time a minute later, undoubtedly Gabe texting some variation on _where the fukc r u?_ she hits ignore and crosses her legs, enjoying the way William's eyes still can’t help flicking to her hemline. “So,” she invites, leaning forward to listen with a fresh drink and a satisfied little smile on her face. “Talk to me about Gabe.”


	2. Double Standard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyn-Z/girl!Spencer for harborshore.

When Spencer is very young, she and her best friend start a rock band. They’re not very good, but they practice with dedication. Pet Salamander becomes The Summer League becomes Panic! At The Disco, and when Spencer is sixteen, they get signed.

She’s ecstatic. Her parents are thrilled for her. Then she and the guys and her parents and Brent’s parents all sit down to lunch with Pete Wentz (Pete Wentz!) to find out what that really means, and then her parents say no.

She doesn’t actually believe it at first. They’re both sympathetic, but, “Honey,” her mom says, reaching out for her before Spencer shies angrily away, “you’re not going across the country in a van with a bunch of boys. We can’t let you do that. It’s not safe.”

Spencer rails, cries, pleads, threatens legal emancipation (her mother goes three shades paler at that declaration, and it’s the first time her father actually raises his voice in the argument), but even the usual foolproof excuse – “But I’ll be with _Ryan_ ” – fails to change their minds.

Ryan tries to talk them into letting her record the album with the band, at least, but that’s still all the way across the country – “And where will you sleep, honey? Will you have your own room?” – so she has to hug Ryan goodbye and go back to high school while he heads off to become a rock star.

The second she turns eighteen, she hits the road with them. Her parents aren’t happy about it, but she’s legally an adult now and she’s graduated from high school, so they can’t stop her and know better than to try.

They’ve replaced her (and she knew they would, knew they had to, but it still stings) with a drummer who’s a few years older and used to be a session musician. Ryan thinks he hung the moon. He’s good – not as good as she is – but he has a different style and he’s not as quick, so the rhythms on even the songs she helped to write have changed. The band is more punk now, heavier and more jaded than The Summer League had ever pretended to be.

Ryan wears black from head to toe, has gauges in both ears and worships My Chemical Romance. He pretends to be a lot cooler than he is, but Spencer’s used to that, so she ignores him and tells pointed stories about his childhood until he stops posing.

Brendon hasn’t changed. He’s still a dork prone to wearing pastel hoodies with a terrible haircut, a point of stability during the first few days when she feels lost and wistful, wishing she could step in again after the year of lapse. It’s not that she wishes their new band member ill, it’s…well, yes. She does. She wants a chance to prove herself, and she wants her band back. Even though, seeing how they live in the van, she’s not actually sure anymore that it’s really what she wants.

The guys love it, though, without question. They’re the first openers on a tour of four bands, but they’re starting to gain a following, kids who know their name and their music. Spencer makes herself useful selling merch and taking care of shit the guys don’t have time for, and it’s a fun way to spend a few weeks, even if Brendon yelling, “Merch girl!” does get old after the first two days. They reach the end of the tour and go straight into the next, and Spencer goes with them.

It’s then that she meets Lyn-Z.

Lyn-Z is everything Spencer’s mother was afraid of. Well, that’s not true, she was afraid of drinking and drugs and boys trying to take advantage, and on a punk rock tour there are plenty of all of those. But Lyn-Z is a girl – a _woman_ – who inhabits the rock’n’roll world like she was born into it. She drinks as much as the boys (sometimes more), she does pot, she wears filthy ripped clothing and flashes her underwear at the crowds. She swears like a sailor, smokes cigarettes, and wears bright red lipstick.

She’s everything Spencer’s mother never wanted her to become.

And Spencer is in love.


	3. Things that go hop in the night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I said I wanted to write a Bunnicula AU, my dear friends tried to tell me no. This is not their fault.

“I don’t know,” Travis says doubtfully. “He doesn’t look like a vampire to me.”

“He’s a menace,” Gabe insists, tail lashing wildly as he stalks back and forth on the carpet. “A creature of the night. A fanged manifestation of evil.”

The object of all the attention sits quietly in his hutch, where he’s been since Jon and Tom brought him in yesterday. So far he’s done nothing more exciting than hop through the little archway into the enclosed half of the hutch, sleep, and hop back out again. Right now he’s regarding them casually from behind the wire mesh, ears half-cocked with vague interest.

Gabe is convinced he’s a vampire.

“That might be a little strong,” Travis objects mildly. Gabe is a pretty cool cat most of the time, but sometimes he gets these ideas into his head, and then it’s hard to talk him out of them. Luckily William – which is what Jon and Tom had called the newest addition to their household – doesn’t seem terribly offended by Gabe’s accusations.

“We’ve been over this,” Gabe hisses, back arching. “How do you explain the _raisin?_ ”

Travis snuffles at the floor doubtfully. He’s a bit of a mongrel, mixed-blood for generations, so it’s not like he can call himself a bloodhound or anything, but he’d like to think he could play detective well enough to figure that one out without having to resort to ‘creature of the night.’

“It’s _white,_ ” Gabe pronounces triumphantly. “Because he _sucked the life out of it._ ”

“It’s not totally white,” Travis hazards, laying his head on his crossed front paws. “It’s more of a golden yellow. Besides, I don’t think that rabbits eat raisins.”

They’d found the raisin underneath the rabbit hutch where William now resides, which had been when Gabe’s suspicions had first reared their insane heads. Travis thinks maybe he’s been watching too many late-night horror movies with Jon and Tom.

“And anyway,” Travis continues, “we found it on the floor. How’s he supposed to have gotten to it down there?”

William eyes him coyly through the wire. Travis wags his tail in a friendly fashion and hopes William understands that Travis is on his side in spite of his association with certain crazy cats in the vicinity.

“Vampires can turn into bats,” Gabe says. “And don’t think I can’t see you conspiring with him. I see all.”

“I don’t think a bat could get out of that hutch either,” Travis says doubtfully.

“Or they can turn into shadows! That’s not the point! The point is that we have a killer on our hands! Do you want to be able to sleep safely tonight?”

“Man, he’s kind of small,” Travis comments, considering the size of the supposed threat. “I think I could flatten him with one paw.”

William sits back on his hind legs and starts washing his face. Travis almost melts into the carpet.

“Aww, come on man, how cute is that? Look, he’s bathing his ears and everything. That’s friggin’ adorable.”

“He’s a vile seducer,” Gabe denounces. “Don’t you remember how he didn’t like the garlic? That proves it.”

“I didn’t like the garlic either,” Travis points out. “That shit was rank.”

“And the potato?” Gabe demands, ears pricked sharply. “Explain the potato. Pure white, like it had been drained to a shriveled potatoey corpse.”

“I think it was just peeled,” Travis admits. “It was in a pan when we saw it.”

William, unbothered by all the fuss, hops over and helps himself to a drink. His little pink tongue laps delicately at his water bottle, one eye still fixed cautiously on Gabe. He doesn’t appear to have any fangs that Travis can see. In fact, he’s kind of sickeningly precious.

Gabe stalks up to the hutch and sticks a paw through the grate, batting at its occupant. William hops away and eyes him from safely out of reach, ears cocked alertly.

“Leave him alone, Gabe,” Travis protests. “He’s just a fuzzy little bunny.”

“He’s plotting ways to murder us in our sleep,” Gabe hisses, tail lashing manically again. “Don’t be fooled.”

William settles in for a nap. Travis thumps his tail on the floor and pants at him in approval.

“Stop that,” Gabe complains. “Traitor.” He stalks away, tail waving stiffly in the air like a banner, and Travis barely has time to recognize the gleam in his eyes and think _oh shit_ before Gabe turns around and leaps at the hutch, all four paws extended and claws unsheathed.

William is frozen for a split-second of wide-eyed horror, and then his foot thumps the floor hard twice and he takes off so fast that Travis barely sees the white flash of his tail as he disappears through the archway into the wooden half of his hutch.

Gabe hits the wire mesh with a twanging racket, clings for a second and drops off, the picture of casual cool. “You see?” he preens. “He’s terrified of me. He knows I’m onto him.”

“He’s a harmless bunny rabbit,” Travis protests. “Dude, you need to chill.”

“Harmless,” Gabe mutters, curling up on the carpet and watching the hutch with sharp, predatory eyes.

He might look more intimidating if he weren’t wearing a purple cat hoodie. Gabe’s previous people had been a couple named Mikey and Alicia, and when he’d been adopted by Jon and Tom, he’d come with an entire kitty wardrobe. Jon and Tom don’t dress him up as much as Mikey and Alicia had, apparently, but they do sometimes get into the mood.

William seems spooked enough, though. His whiskers twitch frantically from the shadowed archway, little pink nose racing.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Travis chides reprovingly, rising to pad closer to William’s hutch. He can just see one wide eye through the archway, watching him with extreme wariness. “He’s all scared now.”

William disappears, to the sound of scuffling and scrabbling, only to reappear again a second later. He still looks skeptical of Travis’ intentions.

“Toothpicks,” Gabe says suddenly. “I need toothpicks, to drive into the heart of his vegetable victims so they don’t rise again.” He trots off to the kitchen, leaving Travis and William staring after him.

Travis licks his own nose apologetically. “Don’t mind him,” he tells William reassuringly. “Gabe’s hit the catnip a little hard, that’s all.”

William’s nose pokes out a little further from his hiding place. He looks like he’s considering Travis.

“And how do you explain the chocolate chips?!” Gabe’s voice echoes from the direction of the kitchen. “ _White chocolate chips!_ ”

Travis sniffs. “You’ve got to admit, that ain’t normal,” he tells William’s visible eye. “I know what chocolate chips are supposed to look like, and that ain’t it.” He sits next to the hutch and wags his tail. “I don’t think it was you, though.”

William’s head emerges, tentative. Travis lies down on the floor, trying to look dopey and harmless. William’s ears prick up slowly and he sticks a careful paw out into the wired half of the hutch.

“Hey, little bunny,” Travis greets him, smiling with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. “How’s it shakin’?”

William creeps out of the archway and up next to the wire mesh. Travis raises his head, and when William stretches forward, whiskers still twitching, Travis leans forward to gently touch noses with him.

“Don’t worry, little dude,” Travis says confidently, ignoring the dramatic clatter from the kitchen as William sits back onto his haunches right across from him. “You’re among friends.”


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Panic! gen.

“The Beatles Rock Band comes out next week,” Jon commented, clicking away on Ryan’s laptop. Ryan himself didn’t mind, as he was on his back on the carpet wiggling his toes thoughtfully, and therefore not using it. Besides, what was his was Jon’s, and what was Jon’s was his, and vice versa. So…the point was that it was okay, that Jon was using his laptop to look at things.

Diverted, Ryan had to take a moment to replay the gist of Jon’s remark. “Yes,” he agreed. It did. He had looked up the date covertly and promptly covered his tracks by deleting the browser history. Seeing how Jon had possession of his laptop, that was probably a good thing. He had watched some questionable porn a few weeks ago. Jon would probably understand that, though. Jon was a good friend.

Jon the good friend nudged Ryan’s shoulder with his toes. “Are we pre-ordering?” he asked, with the tone of one who has asked a question before without properly getting Ryan’s attention first.

Ryan frowned. “No,” he said. Doing that would defeat the entire point of covering his tracks and deleting the browser history. “That would be letting them win.”

Jon knew, of course, to whom and what Ryan was referring. “We could argue our case,” Jon said, scratching his beard in a contemplative fashion. “This is completely different than the Guitar Hero boycott.”

Ryan frowned a little more. “Keytars,” he pointed out.

“Yes,” Jon agreed. “But, Beatles’ custom-designed keytars.”

“Hmmm,” Ryan allowed. He thought about Brendon’s squinchy face when he got irritated and his annoying laugh when he thought he’d won an argument. Tolerable. Then he thought about Spencer’s smirk and shook his head. “We can never let them know,” he said firmly.

“Okay,” Jon answered. “So I can pre-order?”

“You should,” Ryan said solemnly. “It’s going to be limited edition.”

Jon clicked a few more buttons. Click, click, click. Ryan wobbled his ankles with the rhythm of it. His toes were momentarily quiescent. “We can play in Abbey Road,” Jon said after a moment of wobbling.

“We’ve played in Abbey Road,” Ryan pointed out, even though he didn’t like to think about it. Playing with just Jon in Abbey Road wouldn’t be the same. Still good, though. Jon and Ryan made a good band.

“Virtually, though,” Jon replied. Ryan allowed that this was different.

“I want the Rickenbacker,” Ryan said, because he could probably drop the pretense of not having looked up the website now, and if Jon was pre-ordering, Ryan needed to stake his claim early.

“I’ll drum,” Jon said easily. Too easily. Ryan had a deep-seated suspicion that Jon coveted that Rickenbacker for himself. Sure enough, Jon continued in his best casual tone, “We’ll need someone to sing, though.”

Ryan didn’t like where this was going. “I can sing,” he said. “And play guitar at the same time. So can you. We can both sing.”

“There are three microphones,” Jon said, clicking away. Ryan’s feet were beginning to twitch. “For the harmonies.”

Ryan sat up and glared. He was onto Jon’s game, subtle as it might be. “We’re not telling them we bought it,” he said sternly. Jon was occasionally weak-willed and corruptible. “We can never tell.”

Jon didn’t seem too bothered. “There are four instruments, and only two of us,” he said. “Three whole microphones. One microphone would be lonely.” He pulled out the sad puppy eyes, which he knew very well made Ryan cave every time, then grinned a little and said, “I’ll bet we could make Spencer sing.”

Oh, that was a harsh blow. Jon knew how constantly tempted Ryan was to force Spencer into situations that involved him singing. “Only Spencer?” he hazarded carefully.

“Nah,” Jon said. “Just think, then we’d miss out on Brendon trying to play guitar, drums, and sing all at the same time.”

“He can’t have the guitar,” Ryan said immediately. “The Rickenbacker is mine.”

“There are two guitars,” Jon told him, rotating the screen so Ryan could have a view of the cloudscape. He pushed it over in Ryan’s direction and lay back on the carpet.

Ryan contemplated the screen, then reached over to click on the songs page, pondering. “They’re probably busy,” he said, sniffing. “Shows, tour, recording.”

“Brendon just wiped out for the fifth time in a row,” Jon reported from the floor, his head somewhere near Ryan’s feet. “Spencer’s taking pictures and posting them to Twitter.”

“Next week,” Ryan corrected. “They’ll be busy next week.”

There was a pause. “We could wear suits, just like the band,” Jon mused, and Ryan’s resolve crumbled.

“Fine,” he said, trying to sound like he was paying Jon a great favor by allowing this, because he _was._ “We can _invite_ them to join us. But no mockery. Make that a stipulation.”

Jon poked him with a toe again. “Spencer says they’ve already ordered a copy,” he told Ryan. “He’s having it delivered here because he thinks we need more practice than they do. And because they weren’t going to play without us anyway.”

Ryan peered over at Jon, the sneaky traitorous bastard, and elbowed him in the ankle. Gently, though, because he was secretly pleased. “Obviously,” he said, and smiled a little to himself, up at the ceiling.

Jon laughed suddenly. “Brendon says he’ll play whatever guitar you want,” he reported, “but when someone finally produces a String Quartet, he gets the cello.”

“Done,” Ryan agreed graciously. “As long as I’m not playing the violin.”

“Okay,” Jon said, pulling Ryan’s laptop back in his direction. His toes wriggled next to Ryan’s head, and Ryan smiled a secret smile.


	5. TAI TV: Episode 88

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabe/William

Gabe is napping in the Academy’s lounge when they come back from their mysterious midday expedition, because as much as he loves Pete’s bus, these are his boys. Thus he’s the first – and possibly only – person to witness when William tromps up the stairs at the head of the pack wearing an actual, honest-to-god, frilly pink dress.

“Holy shit,” Gabe says, sitting straight up and blinking to make sure this isn’t a post-drunken hallucination. It’s been a few hours since the hangover quit, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

William startles badly when Gabe speaks, and his hands do a strange fluttering dance of trying to cover up his chest, then legs, then face, before he crosses his arms. The body language is probably supposed to be aggressive and resolute, but Gabe sees right through that shit into defensive.

“Don’t even think it,” William says warningly.

“Too late,” Gabe informs him cheerfully, because he’s thought about two hundred things in the past eight seconds, and William would probably object to all of them. “Did you lose a bet?”

“TAI TV,” Butcher declares, pushing past William with total disregard for his choice of wardrobe.

“What are you doing, America’s Next Top Band Member?” Gabe asks.

Adam gives him a thoughtful look. Butcher says, “No, but…”

“Dibs,” Gabe jumps in immediately, cutting him off.

William frowns a little. “We should never have said you could do the Cobra Cam, you’re stealing all of our episode ideas.”

“Hey, that one was mine, fair and square,” Gabe defends, blithely ignoring the part where he stole two of their ideas just last week. They worked better for Cobras, anyway.

Much like this one. He’s going to make a _killer_ Tyra.

“So what’s the deal?” he asks, chowing down when Adam sits next to him and offers Cheetos. Like Gabe is going to turn down Cheetos. “Mary Had A Little Band? Little Bill Peep?”

“Dirty,” Mike says from somewhere behind the rest of the guys, his head in the cabinet.

“It’s a nursery rhyme,” William tells him, much aggrieved.

“So?” Mike says. “Children’s stories are way dirty. Why not nursery rhymes?”

Gabe gives up and raises his eyebrows at Michael. As entertaining as this is, he recognizes William’s stalling for what it is, and he really wants to know what the deal is. As the rule goes; when in doubt – or when William is employing evasive maneuvers – go after Chiz.

As expected, Michael folds like a hand of cards. “This year’s fan-written episode,” he explains, and Gabe still gets a kick out of the way Michael says fan. “Second annual contest. Revenge of the fans.”

“Oh, and what a revenge it was,” Butcher adds. “Ladies and gentlemen, TAI TV presents: The Academy Is: Riot Grrrls.”

Gabe makes a whooping, strangled snorting noise. “Heavens to Betsy,” he says solemnly once he recovers, and then cracks up again when William narrows his eyes.

“Bill was opposed to the idea,” Adam informs him, “but we took a vote, and he was outnumbered four to one.”

Gabe has been around the Academy for long enough to know that while they all love him, the rest of the band occasionally gets revenge on William in strange, twisted ways for the many times he drives them all batshit crazy. This is looking like one of those instances.

“Four to one, really?” Gabe asks, with faux-innocence.

“Then Mike defected, and Bill tried to claim two votes, as lead singer,” Butcher says. “So we called Tom as a tie-breaker, who we agreed gets half a vote as an ex-member.”

“And it was unanimous,” Adam proclaims, even though it obviously wasn’t.

“Conrad voted to put video of you in a skirt on the Internet?” Gabe asks, with wide eyes. “I’m shocked.”

William rolls his eyes. “Me too,” he says with heavy irony.

“I still say you Americans are repressed,” Michael says. “It’s not a big deal.”

“You are a brave man,” Gabe tells him, because he doesn’t even live on this bus and he’s still pretty sure William would make his life hell if he voted for a fan episode about William running around in a skirt and pigtails.

“It’s for a good cause,” Michael says, shrugging, and if Gabe didn’t know him better, he’d totally have missed the glint in his eye. “Third-wave feminism. Universal female identity.”

“I support women in music,” William says, like any of them ever doubted that. “But I don’t think this is really furthering their goals.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Gabe drawls, leaning back with one arm tucked behind his head. “Maybe with a little more eyeliner, some fishnets and a bad dye job.”

“We’re talking about me in a dress, not your latest wet dream,” William informs him in a tone dry enough to parch an oasis.

Gabe leers at him, because William should really know better than to give him that kind of opening. “Maybe you _are_ my wet dream,” he says. “ _Ay Mamacita._ ”

“I don’t think the feminists would appreciate that,” William replies, in a tone that Gabe recognizes as trying for ‘dignified.’ Too late for dignity, Gabe thinks. There’s a pink frilly dress involved.

“Is this really Riot Grrrl gear?” he asks critically, tapping his lower lip.

“You’re just angling for the fishnets,” Mike says, coming back to join them with a fresh beer in his hand. “We’re onto you.”

“If the stocking fits,” Gabe agrees, standing. He rolls out his shoulders and says, “Good luck with the episode.”

“You’re leaving?” Adam asks, sounding disappointed. The bag of Cheetos hangs uncertainly in the air.

“Places to go, people to see,” Gabe says casually. In truth, he needs to tell someone about this before he explodes. Preferably his entire band. Preferably the whole fucking _tour._

William narrows his eyes again, which means he sees right through that excuse. Gabe smiles winsomely at him in return, and William’s stuck because he can’t exactly make a fuss about Gabe leaving the bus when his only other option is to encourage him to stay while wearing women’s clothing. Gabe grins harder.

“I’ll see you soon,” he tells William, and drops his voice once he moves past William into the hallway and the other guys start talking about something else. “Want to roleplay? A little riot grrl-on-fanboy action?”

“Not my kink,” William says. “Nice try, though.”

“You should come over later,” Gabe says, undeterred, and William’s eyes darken in the way that means he understands what that invitation really is.

Neither of them bother glancing around; the other guys either know or they don’t, and either way, they don’t care. William shrugs one shoulder in a way that means maybe, but he sucks his lower lip between his teeth to worry it, which means yes.

Gabe winks at him and adds, “Don’t change.”


	6. TAI TV: Episode 88

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabe/William.

Gabe is napping in the Academy’s lounge when they come back from their mysterious midday expedition, because as much as he loves Pete’s bus, these are his boys. Thus he’s the first – and possibly only – person to witness when William tromps up the stairs at the head of the pack wearing an actual, honest-to-god, frilly pink dress.

“Holy shit,” Gabe says, sitting straight up and blinking to make sure this isn’t a post-drunken hallucination. It’s been a few hours since the hangover quit, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

William startles badly when Gabe speaks, and his hands do a strange fluttering dance of trying to cover up his chest, then legs, then face, before he crosses his arms. The body language is probably supposed to be aggressive and resolute, but Gabe sees right through that shit into defensive.

“Don’t even think it,” William says warningly.

“Too late,” Gabe informs him cheerfully, because he’s thought about two hundred things in the past eight seconds, and William would probably object to all of them. “Did you lose a bet?”

“TAI TV,” Butcher declares, pushing past William with total disregard for his choice of wardrobe.

“What are you doing, America’s Next Top Band Member?” Gabe asks.

Adam gives him a thoughtful look. Butcher says, “No, but…”

“Dibs,” Gabe jumps in immediately, cutting him off.

William frowns a little. “We should never have said you could do the Cobra Cam, you’re stealing all of our episode ideas.”

“Hey, that one was mine, fair and square,” Gabe defends, blithely ignoring the part where he stole two of their ideas just last week. They worked better for Cobras, anyway.

Much like this one. He’s going to make a _killer_ Tyra.

“So what’s the deal?” he asks, chowing down when Adam sits next to him and offers Cheetos. Like Gabe is going to turn down Cheetos. “Mary Had A Little Band? Little Bill Peep?”

“Dirty,” Mike says from somewhere behind the rest of the guys, his head in the cabinet.

“It’s a nursery rhyme,” William tells him, much aggrieved.

“So?” Mike says. “Children’s stories are way dirty. Why not nursery rhymes?”

Gabe gives up and raises his eyebrows at Michael. As entertaining as this is, he recognizes William’s stalling for what it is, and he really wants to know what the deal is. As the rule goes; when in doubt – or when William is employing evasive maneuvers – go after Chiz.

As expected, Michael folds like a hand of cards. “This year’s fan-written episode,” he explains, and Gabe still gets a kick out of the way Michael says fan. “Second annual contest. Revenge of the fans.”

“Oh, and what a revenge it was,” Butcher adds. “Ladies and gentlemen, TAI TV presents: The Academy Is: Riot Grrrls.”

Gabe makes a whooping, strangled snorting noise. “Heavens to Betsy,” he says solemnly once he recovers, and then cracks up again when William narrows his eyes.

“Bill was opposed to the idea,” Adam informs him, “but we took a vote, and he was outnumbered four to one.”

Gabe has been around the Academy for long enough to know that while they all love him, the rest of the band occasionally gets revenge on William in strange, twisted ways for the many times he drives them all batshit crazy. This is looking like one of those instances.

“Four to one, really?” Gabe asks, with faux-innocence.

“Then Mike defected, and Bill tried to claim two votes, as lead singer,” Butcher says. “So we called Tom as a tie-breaker, who we agreed gets half a vote as an ex-member.”

“And it was unanimous,” Adam proclaims, even though it obviously wasn’t.

“Conrad voted to put video of you in a skirt on the Internet?” Gabe asks, with wide eyes. “I’m shocked.”

William rolls his eyes. “Me too,” he says with heavy irony.

“I still say you Americans are repressed,” Michael says. “It’s not a big deal.”

“You are a brave man,” Gabe tells him, because he doesn’t even live on this bus and he’s still pretty sure William would make his life hell if he voted for a fan episode about William running around in a skirt and pigtails.

“It’s for a good cause,” Michael says, shrugging, and if Gabe didn’t know him better, he’d totally have missed the glint in his eye. “Third-wave feminism. Universal female identity.”

“I support women in music,” William says, like any of them ever doubted that. “But I don’t think this is really furthering their goals.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Gabe drawls, leaning back with one arm tucked behind his head. “Maybe with a little more eyeliner, some fishnets and a bad dye job.”

“We’re talking about me in a dress, not your latest wet dream,” William informs him in a tone dry enough to parch an oasis.

Gabe leers at him, because William should really know better than to give him that kind of opening. “Maybe you _are_ my wet dream,” he says. “ _Ay Mamacita._ ”

“I don’t think the feminists would appreciate that,” William replies, in a tone that Gabe recognizes as trying for ‘dignified.’ Too late for dignity, Gabe thinks. There’s a pink frilly dress involved.

“Is this really Riot Grrrl gear?” he asks critically, tapping his lower lip.

“You’re just angling for the fishnets,” Mike says, coming back to join them with a fresh beer in his hand. “We’re onto you.”

“If the stocking fits,” Gabe agrees, standing. He rolls out his shoulders and says, “Good luck with the episode.”

“You’re leaving?” Adam asks, sounding disappointed. The bag of Cheetos hangs uncertainly in the air.

“Places to go, people to see,” Gabe says casually. In truth, he needs to tell someone about this before he explodes. Preferably his entire band. Preferably the whole fucking _tour._

William narrows his eyes again, which means he sees right through that excuse. Gabe smiles winsomely at him in return, and William’s stuck because he can’t exactly make a fuss about Gabe leaving the bus when his only other option is to encourage him to stay while wearing women’s clothing. Gabe grins harder.

“I’ll see you soon,” he tells William, and drops his voice once he moves past William into the hallway and the other guys start talking about something else. “Want to roleplay? A little riot grrl-on-fanboy action?”

“Not my kink,” William says. “Nice try, though.”

“You should come over later,” Gabe says, undeterred, and William’s eyes darken in the way that means he understands what that invitation really is.

Neither of them bother glancing around; the other guys either know or they don’t, and either way, they don’t care. William shrugs one shoulder in a way that means maybe, but he sucks his lower lip between his teeth to worry it, which means yes.

Gabe winks at him and adds, “Don’t change.”


	7. Space

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spencer/Brendon

They move from the van to a bus and somehow Brendon expands to fill up the extra space, so that Spencer ends up feeling like he has even less room than he did when they were driving all night with Brendon singing along with the radio and Ryan drooling on Spencer’s hoodie. Every time he turns around, Brendon is there, smiling like a doof or bumping into things or sprawling across every available inch of surface. It makes Spencer itchy. He likes his space, and he’d thought he would have more of it now, rather than less.

He’s just getting used to it when they acquire Jon, and then suddenly Brendon isn’t in Spencer’s personal space anymore, because he’s all over Jon’s. For reasons that Spencer can’t explain even to himself – or to Ryan in annoyed grunting sounds – that only makes it worse. It’s probably, Spencer decides, because Jon has somehow managed to make Brendon’s expansive presence on the bus tolerable after merely a week, whereas Spencer has been trying to accomplish the same thing unsuccessfully for months.

Brendon himself remains oblivious to the change, just as he’s stayed unaware of the fact that up until this point he’s been driving Spencer crazy with his humming and his spontaneous hugging and his fucking _elbows_ everywhere all the time. His elbows are now Jon’s problem, along with his spontaneous hugging – seriously, Jon has gotten, like, six hugs already today and it’s not even noon – and even if Spencer can still hear the humming, it’s never right next to his ear anymore, low and absent-minded with warm air tickling the hair by his cheek. It’s across the room, like it is right now, because Brendon is curled up mostly in Jon’s lap half-singing something and half-arguing earnestly about the nutritional value of Pop-Tarts.

“What the fuck does it even matter?” Spencer cuts in irritably, which makes Brendon stop mid-sentence, eyes wide and mouth open in a shocked little ‘o’. Spencer is having a brain-to-mouth disconnect, apparently, because he keeps going even when Jon gives him the eyebrows. “Jon eats whatever cereal we’ve got that has the most sugar in it, and you eat whatever he’s eating because you can’t stand to be separated for long enough to find your own bowl.”

Brendon’s shocked face has taken a distinct turn for ‘bewildered and dismayed.’ It has the instant effect of making Spencer feel guilty, even though a small part of him cheers _vindicated!_ when Brendon draws back slightly from Jon in reaction. Spencer is such a bitch.

“Sorry,” he starts lamely, but Jon cuts him off before he can formulate a half-assed apology, shaking his head and stretching out deliberately, his arm dropping from where it had been resting around Brendon’s shoulders.

“It’s cool,” he says, flashing a smile that only seems to confuse Brendon more. It’s a good thing that Spencer knows by now exactly how much of a vindictive asshole Jon can be sometimes, or he’d be swamped with shame over how laidback and understanding Jon is being right now. “I’m poaching, I get it.”

“That’s not…” Spencer starts, and forces himself to bite his tongue viciously before anything incriminating comes out. He’s not sure of exactly what he might have said, but he can already hear the warning bells ringing in his mind.

“What?” Brendon asks, startled and still confused. Jon gives him a shoulder-squeeze as he stands up, and winks at Spencer – asshole – as he slides past, easily maneuvering in the small space without bumping into Spencer. Jon’s used to sharing space on a tour bus in a way that none of the rest of them are yet. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t mind Brendon.

They stand there and stare at each other for a while, Brendon curled up in on himself in a way that Spencer hates, even more than he hates when Brendon takes up an entire room. Brendon picks at his jeans and looks at Spencer, and Spencer cocks his hips and looks back at Brendon, and neither of them say anything. Spencer can see Brendon gearing up to break the silence, with that look he gets that means he’s mentally deciding whether to blurt an apology or act like an asshole in self-defense, so Spencer makes a pre-emptive move to shut down either course of action.

“Sorry,” he says again, like a lame-ass. “I didn’t mean that.”

Brendon cocks his head, obviously thinking about that, turning it over. Finally he smiles a little, just a little at the corners, and says, “Am I territory, Spencer Smith?”

“No,” Spencer says, and he keeps the rhythm, doesn’t say it too soon or too fast, doesn’t give himself away. Brendon blinks slowly, stupidly thick lashes dipping down once over his eyes, and uncurls a little. Spencer smiles, almost like he means it, and his shoulders relax incrementally, releasing some of the tension. “You’re still ours, though,” he says, and Brendon’s smile blooms like it’s been lurking just out of sight, waiting for a chance to knock the air out of Spencer’s chest.

Brendon spontaneously hugs him, elbows everywhere and breath humming happily in Spencer’s ear, and Spencer doesn’t mind.


	8. So I can breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spencer/Brendon

Out the bus window, one part of America looks about the same as any other. Spencer watches until he gets tired of the scenery, which doesn’t take long, and then heads out to see what everyone else is doing.

Jon is probably napping, since his curtain is closed and it’s three in the afternoon, which is when Jon has a tendency to disappear for half an hour. Spencer would tease him about being an old man, but Ryan is even worse. Last week he bought plaid flannel sheets.

Ryan’s in the lounge, with a notebook open in front of him. Spencer leans over his shoulder to look, in case Ryan’s ready for some feedback, and frowns when he sees the handwriting.

“He left it out,” Ryan says, reading his mind before Spencer can ask.

It’s not that much of a surprise, really. Brendon has a tendency to leave things lying around, expanding as they travel until he fills every corner of the bus. And Ryan is respectful – borderline obsessive – about privacy, but anything left in common areas is fair game. They established that rule long ago. Spencer just hadn’t realized that it extended to personal journals.

He reads enough to know that Brendon probably wouldn’t appreciate Spencer reading this, and turns his attention elsewhere. Not only is the notebook out, but Brendon’s laptop is open, headphones still playing tinny music. He can be forgetful sometimes, if something distracts him. The tracklist shows George Michael and Justin Timberlake. He knows why Ryan is reading, then, although usually this particular combination doesn’t faze him. It’s only when the Rob Thomas comes on that Ryan starts to worry.

“He won’t leave you,” Spencer says, on the off chance that Ryan has started worrying early.

Ryan frowns at the words in front of him and corrects, “He won’t leave _you._ ”

Spencer starts to ask, but Ryan flips a page and he doesn’t bother. The answer would probably be cryptic anyway, and Spencer has little patience for Ryan when he’s riddling. “Where is he?” he asks instead.

“Up front,” Ryan answers, still frowning. Spencer almost reaches out to turn off the music, but stops himself. Ryan can turn it off if he wants to. “Jeff said he could drive. They switched off the last time we stopped for gas.”

That’s a surprise. Brendon has been spending a lot of time alone lately, in his bunk and up late at night in the lounge, but he’s never cut himself off from them. Spencer stands up, destination already vaguely in mind. Ryan keeps reading.

He makes his way up to the driver’s seat and takes a seat at the top of the steps. Brendon has his iPod plugged into the adaptor, the music quiet enough that it’s barely audible over the sound of the engine. Spencer’s not in the mood for folk and Brendon doesn’t particularly like the Kingston Trio, so Spencer picks his iPod up and starts changing the playlist.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, just watching the road and the flat expanse of countryside around them. A sign proclaiming 75 mph whizzes past and Spencer guesses there’s a reason Brendon waited until they were in Wyoming to drive.

U2 clicks on after a few other songs, and when Spencer looks sideways, he sees the corners of Brendon’s mouth turn up. “Subtle, Spencer Smith,” he says.

“Hey, sometimes you can’t make it on your own,” Spencer replies solemnly. Brendon’s mouth curls again, but he doesn’t sing along. Spencer gives it a few more minutes, letting the music play and watching the view. It’s not much more exciting out the windshield than it was through the window, but Spencer guesses Brendon didn’t really come up here to enjoy the scenery.

“Want to talk?” Spencer asks after a while, when it becomes clear that Brendon isn’t going to. Sometimes if Spencer waits long enough, he finds that people share what they’re thinking without him having to ask. It tends to work better with Ryan, though.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Brendon says frankly. It doesn’t even sound like a question, like there’s any hesitation behind it.

Spencer pushes anyway. Just a little, just because he’s found that sometimes you have to dig in your heels with Brendon, be more stubborn than he is. “Ryan’s writing songs about his dog and you’re writing about whether it would be worth living to be cast out of heaven,” he points out, just a little dry. “I don’t blame you for thinking about your own album. Singing your words, your way.”

“That’s not it,” Brendon says. He drives for a while, lost in thought.

Spencer waits.

“I thought that was it, once we made it,” he says finally. “My family took me back, they said I’d made a good decision, that they were proud of me.”

He lapses back into silence abruptly. Spencer keeps waiting. They pass an exit, the first one Spencer’s seen so far. There’s about twenty feet of pavement off the ramp, and from there it turns into dirt road.

“It’s not enough, though,” Brendon says finally. “They may have taken me back, but I’m still wrong in their eyes. I’m still sinning. I keep feeling like maybe if I made it big, maybe if it was my name on magazines and album covers, they might…that might be enough.”

“They are proud of you,” Spencer says. He’s sure of that, at least. He can’t imagine anyone _not_ being proud of Brendon and what he’s accomplished.

Brendon laughs, and it’s a little awkward, but not forced. “They’re tolerant,” he says, and Spencer can’t counter that.

“I just want to get it out sometimes,” Brendon says after a moment. “All the stuff I’m never going to man up and say to them.”

“That music is the light guiding your path with its fiery sword?” Spencer suggests.

Brendon laughs a little, and it sounds better this time. “Maybe the Lucifer metaphor was a bit much,” he admits.

“You should show it to Ryan,” Spencer says. “He eats that metaphor shit up with a spoon.”

“He’s probably already reading it,” Brendon says, with an edge of irritation that makes Spencer glad he hadn’t indulged his curiosity and read more than a few lines. Brendon glances over and screws up his face. “He is, isn’t he? That’s why you came up here.”

Spencer shrugs. “I wanted to check on you. It’s not every day you decide to get behind the wheel of our tour bus.”

“I needed to think.” Brendon’s fingers drum restless on the steering wheel. “Driving is freedom, you know? The open road.”

“Especially when you’re doing ninety,” Spencer points out, and Brendon grins, not even pretending to slow down.

“Spencer,” Brendon says after another second, into the pause between songs, and it comes out like a sigh. “I’m not Ryan. You don’t have to be a…a willing ear or a strong shoulder or a warm body or whatever.”

The way he throws it out there sets Spencer off-balance for a second, but he recovers quickly. “I was never that for Ryan,” he says, keeping it low and even. He knows that Brendon knows which part of that statement he means.

Brendon makes a face, like he hadn’t been sure but it really doesn’t matter. Maybe it doesn’t. Or maybe Brendon is being a good actor again. “Me either,” he says.

“I know.” Spencer lets himself smile then, remembering the early days, when Brendon had been so obviously infatuated and Ryan had swung between tolerant and annoyed in turns. “I would have known.”

“You might not,” Brendon scoffs. “Give me some points for discretion.”

Spencer would be willing to be that Brendon doesn’t have a discreet bone in his body, but he bites his tongue on that. “He would have told me,” he clarifies instead, and Brendon falls silent, chewing on his lower lip. His eyes are fixed on the road, and Spencer hears Ryan’s voice again in his head, _he wouldn’t leave you._

“Do you need that?” he asks carefully. It’s far too easy to say the wrong thing now, to misstep and make it awkward. He chooses the safest route. “A shoulder?”

Brendon makes that face again, the one that twists his mouth and doesn’t touch his eyes. Spencer can’t put a name to it, but he dislikes it. “You always know which one of us is weakest, don’t you?” he asks, and it’s not sharp like a retort, merely stating a fact. “Holding us together. Ryan’s finally happy, so now you’re looking after me.”

“It’s not like that,” Spencer says immediately. He tries to hold them together, yes, but he’s not playing fix-it with his band. He doesn’t weigh their problems and decide who needs his help the most.

“What’s it like, then?” Brendon asks. Deliberately light, nonchalant. If this were a different moment, Spencer thinks, if they were face to face and Brendon didn’t have his hands on a steering wheel, this would be the moment when Spencer kissed him. He feels it pass and can’t tell whether the stab of emotion in his stomach is relief or disappointment.

“Brendon,” he says quietly, and means _if you need me, if you want that._

To his surprise, Brendon actually glances over at him, and then looks back at the road, chewing on his lip again. “I know,” Brendon says, almost to himself. He smiles brightly then. “Good think it hasn’t come to that yet, right?”

“Brendon,” Spencer says again, and the fake cheer drops off of Brendon’s face. He sighs.

“I know,” he says again. Then, “I’ll show Ross the lyrics. Properly, without him snooping.”

“Good,” Spencer says, and is somewhat surprised to find that he really means it. Maybe it will do Brendon good to have his words out there on the stage, and even if it doesn’t, at least it will force Ryan to think more collaboratively and explore new themes. There are only so many Wentzian rhymes about candle swans and marching clocks Spencer is willing to permit.

“Maybe I’ll take your approach and start by singing about not cutting my beard,” Brendon suggests, rapping his fingers against the steering wheel now in time with the music. “Maybe I’ll _grow_ a beard and then sing about not cutting it.”

“Hey,” Spencer objects. “I like my beard.” He strokes it for emphasis. It’s soft under his fingertips, neatly trimmed.

“I like it too,” Brendon agrees. He glances over again, and this time Spencer thinks he catches a hint of something in Brendon’s eyes, something like the way he used to look at Ryan, only darker, with more heat. It’s only there for an instant, but it’s enough. It’s enough for Spencer to look at Brendon in the driver’s seat and think _later._

The sound of voices carries up from the back, and Spencer stretches a little, working out the kink in his back from sitting on the floor. “I think Jon’s up,” he says.

“Cool,” Brendon replies, the foot not on the gas pedal dancing along to Weezer. “You should go back, see what they’re up to. I’m going to keep driving for a while.”

Spencer looks out the windshield, then half at Brendon out of the corner of his eye. “Maybe I’ll stay here for a while,” he suggests. “If you don’t mind the company.”

Brendon looks surprised, but he just shrugs. “Sure,” he says. “You’re in charge of the playlist.”

Spencer adds a few more tracks, although what he’s already set will last them for at least a while. The next song has started up when he finally says, “You’re not Ryan.”

Brendon glances sideways at him, lips tugging up again. He opens his mouth and what Spencer expects to hear is _neither are you._ He thinks maybe that’s what Brendon meant to say as well, but he changes his mind halfway through, smiling crooked, and says, “I know.”

Spencer shifts back against the partition and settles in to enjoy the drive.


	9. Keeping Count

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brendon/Shane, warning for spanking.

“One,” says Brendon. “Two.”

The first ones are always the hardest. It’s the anticipation of pain that gets to him, far more than the pain itself, and Shane never starts out light. When he tells Brendon to count, he means it. There’s no warm-up, no fooling around with heart-shaped leather paddles and teasing slaps, just the hard crack of Shane’s hand against Brendon’s bare ass.

He’s bent neatly over the computer desk, legs spread the proper distance apart and forehead resting on his crossed arms. The surface of the desk is cool right now, chilling his nipples into tight points, but it won’t stay that way for long. Brendon counts, “Three,” and hisses a little as his nerves wake up and catch fire.

The most important thing is the rhythm. Once he catches the rhythm, he can relax, and won’t tense into every smack. Shane doesn’t rush; he takes his time, and Brendon breathes between slaps, easy in-and-out as he starts to relax into the spanking. After the first half-dozen – “Seven” – it’s a breeze.

His ass starts to warm up, even before the desk. He arches into Shane’s palm as soon as he feels the glow, chasing it. Shane’s always amused when he does that, the fact that he begs even when he doesn’t have to, just because he feels like it. The next two blows come faster, and Brendon arches harder, smiling against the slowly-warming wood of the desk with his eyes closed. “Ten.”

Brendon’s skin is just starting to tingle – “Fourteen, fifteen” – when Shane stops, and Brendon is inhaling to speak the next number when he realizes it isn’t coming. He’s instantly racing through possibilities and questions – they can’t be done, it’s too soon, Shane would never get him warmed up like this for less than thirty – when he feels Shane’s finger tracing down from the base of his spine, over his coccyx to press against the pucker of his ass.

Shane pushes in easily, sinking in deep all the way to his knuckle, and Brendon bites down hard on his lower lip to keep from groaning. He’s already slick with lube; Shane hadn’t told to him to get naked when Brendon had mentioned maybe he’d like to be spanked tonight, he’d said, “Get yourself ready,” which means that in addition to having all of his clothes off and holding his position over the desk, Brendon is already wet and stretched.

Shane’s finger slides out to the tip, then in, then out again, all the way, and Brendon has to force himself not to chase it. Shane rubs his fingertip over the pucker, just for a moment, and then drops his hand away. Brendon exhales, and has just enough time to take another deep breath before Shane’s hand falls again and he annunciates clearly, “Sixteen.”

It’s a little bit of a shock to get back into it, but nothing too bad. Brendon picks up the rhythm again before “Eighteen” even falls, even more relaxed now that Shane’s fingered him a little, used him. It’s always hard for Brendon to focus on what they’re doing, to switch his brain into that place where nothing else matters except for Shane, but it’s easier when he has something specific to channel his energy into, something like this. Shane had learned early on that “Be good,” wasn’t enough instruction to keep Brendon from twitching.

“Twenty-two,” Brendon gasps, and the tip of his cock bumps the edge of the desk as he unconsciously tucks his hips forward, starting to curl away from Shane’s hand even though he doesn’t want the spanking to stop. It’s instinctive, a retreat from pain, and he knows Shane’s caught him at it when his other hand curves heavy and strong around Brendon’s hip and pushes him flat again, so that his ass is up in the air just in time for, “Twenty-four.” Brendon’s face flames, and “Twenty-five” comes out just a little breathy, embarrassed.

They’re at the point now that every blow inevitably falls on sore skin, when it hurts no matter what. This is why Shane always aims for thirty or higher, to make sure he gets to this point. Brendon works hard to keep from squirming, but when “Twenty-eight” lands and the next one doesn’t immediately follow it, two of Shane’s fingers instead pushing thick and deep inside his ass, Brendon can’t stop the low, grateful moan.

Shane fucks him slow and easy with both fingers, crooking them just enough to make Brendon’s breath come in soft, helpless pants. He makes a little whimpering noise when Shane draws them away again, and thinks Shane probably smiles in the pause between that and the next sharp slap.

Brendon arches, nerves flaming into instant awareness, and pushes back into “Thirty, thirty-one,” as they come just a hair faster than before. The wood is warm against his skin now, even against his chest when his nipples brush the desk as he pushes back into Shane’s hand before it drives him forward again. Shane corrects his posture again, gentle but implacable, and Brendon’s nipples push down harder against the desk after the next blow, squeaking on the wood as the momentum of the slap shoves him forward.

He’s starting to float, to hit that amazing place where he blinks and loses track of time and heartbeats and everything but the feel of Shane’s hand and the hot, vivid burn of his ass tilted up into the air. His breathing has sped up, coming faster now so that he gets two breaths for each blow, and sometimes there’s a tiny sound on the exhalations between actual counts. He always thinks he’s perfectly silent during this, still and obedient, but Shane tells him afterward that he makes a lot of fucking noise, so Brendon doesn’t know. He’s not aware of it if he does.

Shane pushes three fingers inside of him, corkscrewing to drive them in deep, and Brendon definitely makes a fucking lot of noise then, arching his back as far as he can in this position to beg for more, for Shane. Shane puts his free hand, the one that’s warm from spanking Brendon, on Brendon’s burning ass, squeezing him lightly in acknowledgement and setting off a chain-reaction of exploding endorphins that makes Brendon’s mouth drop open to drag in more air.

Shane takes his time with this the way he does with everything, gentle and thorough, and Brendon is actively whimpering against the desktop when his fingers drag out – slowly, slowly – and leave Brendon empty and gaping. The first blow drives Brendon forward before he’s braced for it, his mouth squeaking against the wood, and he tastes the bitter tang of furniture polish when he licks his lips. His brain spins, and he stutters out, “Thirty-nine,” without consciously deciding to do it.

For a moment Shane pauses, and Brendon’s not sure he’s gotten the count right, not sure at all, he can’t remember…but then the next blow comes, harder and sharper, and Brendon’s “Forty” is nearly lost completely in his groan.

He’s probably gotten loud at this point, he’s not sure, but Shane doesn’t alter the rhythm and doesn’t stop, so Brendon just keeps counting, lifting his hips eagerly into each blow now that they’ve blurred into each other, his ass one giant throb of heat centering his awareness.

When they hit “Fifty,” Brendon’s pitch has gone up by half an octave, desperate and pleading. Shane strokes his hand down over Brendon’s ass cheek, feeling the heat, and then pinches right in the tender curve where Brendon’s ass meets the back of his thigh, digging his nails in sharply enough to make Brendon whimper.

Brendon’s prepared to beg, but he doesn’t have to, because Shane doesn’t wait any longer; just lines up and slides his cock in, inch by inch. Even already stretched and fingered, it’s a lot to take, and Brendon is panting hard by the time Shane’s balls bump against his skin, his face turned sideways so that his cheek rests against his crossed arms.

Shane stays still for a slow second, letting Brendon adjust, and then he circles his hips, pulling out and slamming back in. Heat explodes across Brendon’s ass, painting bright sparks behind his closed eyelids, and his breath seems impossibly hard to catch, chest squeezing tight around the twisted burst of pain and pleasure. Shane doesn’t play around after that, fucking him hard enough to rock Brendon against the desk, his nipples squeaking dully and painfully against the wood with each thrust. Brendon is dimly aware of his nails biting into the wood, searching fruitlessly for traction as Shane hauls Brendon’s hips back each time his own piston forward, snapping them hard together.

Brendon bites his lip hard when he hears himself moaning, trying to stifle the sound, but Shane’s fingers bite into his hips and he says, “Don’t,” so Brendon lets his mouth drop back open. He’s vaguely and dizzily aware of begging after that, pleading with questionable coherence as Shane fucks him silly and his hands stay anchored on Brendon’s hips. Most of the actual words are lost to the roar in his ears, but he’s still conscious of making them, so he thinks he’s probably gotten pretty fucking loud after all. Shane snaps his hips forward, his cock in deep, and then his hand wraps around Brendon’s cock and he barely has time to say, “You can,” before Brendon comes shuddering and shaking apart in his hands.

His face feels weirdly wet, which is strange because he feels like laughing. He feels light, buoyed up and floating, on top of the world, but when he tries to stand up and twist around to kiss Shane, his legs buckle. They wobble like Jell-O, refusing to hold him up no matter how sternly he commands them, and Shane laughs and catches him around the waist before Brendon can dump himself on his own ass.

“Easy,” Shane says, and “Fuck,” Brendon says, and then they’re kissing, frenzied and passionate but still somehow relaxed, mellowed out by the spanking and the sex and Shane’s hands on his skin, holding him in. Brendon opens his mouth as wide as it will go and sucks on Shane’s tongue, letting him fuck Brendon’s mouth with firm, lazy strokes, and he leans back against the desk, the edge of it digging into his sore ass, Shane’s weight pinning him there, and it’s perfect.


	10. An Unfortunate Incident in Cardiff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Torchwood crossover, Jack Harkness/William Beckett

“Bill?” Mike says cautiously. “This is one of the, uh, local police guys. He’s here to ask us questions.”

William is in the tiny lounge between their dressing room and the next one over, sitting on the overstuffed sofa with a cup of tea. He’d thought it might calm his nerves, which could desperately use the soothing, seeing as one of their fans just jumped onstage and tried to _eat him._ William shudders. He should have known better than to do a show in Wales.

“Cap’n Jack Harkness,” the Welsh police officer introduces himself with a crooked smirk. His accent doesn’t sound very Welsh. His uniform doesn’t look very law-enforcement-chic, either, unless Welsh officers have a very different take on the standard uniform. William frowns, and starts wondering whether he ought to be nervous.

Mike’s already ducked back out again, but the other guys aren’t far away. William knows how to make the best use of his lungpower if it turns out screaming for help is in order. He stands up and accepts the guy’s offered handshake. “William Beckett.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about you,” Harkness says, with the smirk still in place. It actually looks like more of a leer, sort of what he thinks Gabe is always trying (and failing) to produce. His hand lingers when William goes to pull back, and that along with the leer makes the warning bells in William’s mind ring a little clearer.

“How can I help you?” William asks, reclaiming his hand with as little fuss as possible. He folds it firmly around the teacup still in his other hand, bringing the mug to his lips for another sip. It’s pretty good tea, actually. The Welsh may have their faults – cannibalistic homicidal concert-goers is currently at the top of William’s list – but they do know how to make good tea.

“Just a couple of questions about your recent show,” Harkness agrees, lounging against the arm of the sofa. William eyes him warily, then decides that sitting down on the far end of the sofa might be advisable. “I understand you were attacked.”

William thinks attacked might be a mild word for it. “He tried to eat me,” he explains for the third time in the past hour. “He came at me with his mouth open, and he had a fork. A _fork._ ” That, if he’s being honest, had probably been the most upsetting part. It’s not exactly the weapon of choice for most serial killers. “He had _three sets of teeth._ ”

Harkness looks remarkably unruffled. “Ah, you saw the teeth, did you?” he asks. “Big fake ones, looked like they came out of a joke shop?” For all the lightness in his tone, he’s watching William keenly. Not in a flirtatious way, either, this is something else. William swallows.

“They weren’t fake,” he says, as calmly as possible. “I saw them. They rose up…” Christ, now he sounds like Pete talking about vampires. “They _emerged_ from behind his first set, through his gums. Like shark teeth. Multiple rows. _Serrated._ ”

“Ah,” Harkness says again, sitting on the arm of the couch. “Pity.” He sighs, mouth twitching to one side, but in spite of the fact that William just told him about a terrifying serial killing cannibal with shark teeth, he doesn’t seem all that upset. “I was hoping you hadn’t gotten that close a look.”

William stares at him. “He tried to _eat me,_ ” he repeats slowly. It’s possible that Harkness is a little slow. William tries to give the world the benefit of the doubt, but he’s resigned to the fact that most people are just stupid.

“Yeah, well, I’m afraid that’s all a part of the genetics,” Harkness says, standing again. “Coon-ee-eye Fabreecuss,” he says, or something like it; William thinks that must have been in Welsh. “The teeth are a part of the mating display. They respond to certain frequencies and sound waves. Judging by its choice of utensil, I’m guessing you had that one pretty riled up.”

This time it takes William more than a second of staring to find his tongue. “Excuse me?” he asks in disbelief. The teacup in his hand clatters a little against the saucer; his hands are shaking. “ _Mating_ displays?”

“Hey, you were singing it a love song,” Harkness replies, spreading his hands and smirking again. “You can’t blame it for taking you up on the offer. All three sets of teeth extended, huh? You must have been putting on quite the show.”

William realizes he’s standing up. He’s not sure exactly how he got there or when it happened, just that it seems prudent, at the moment, to be ready to run at any possible moment. Harkness is obviously completely out of his mind. Apparently it’s William’s day for wackjobs. Fucking Wales. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, a response drilled into him by many years of practically living with Adam and close contact with Pete.

“I didn’t say you did,” Harkness soothes, taking a step closer. William takes one back to counter it. “I have to say, though, I caught part of your performance myself, watching the playback on CCTV. I can’t blame it for deciding you’d make a tasty snack.” Definitely a leer. William absently takes notes so he can explain to Gabe what he’s doing wrong the next time he sees him. “Hell,” Harkness continues. “I tend to agree with it.”

William takes two more hasty steps back, rounding the corner of the sofa and putting it between himself and Harkness. “I think you should go,” he says somewhat unsteadily. God, he needs a drink. “Should I call a lawyer?”

“For declaring yourself the victim of an alien attack? Or for suing the home planet?” Harkness seems completely in earnest, which is why it takes William several seconds to process his statement and come up with what is very wrong with it.

“ _Alien?_ ” He needs more than a drink. He needs a whole fucking bottle. And Gabe. Gabe would bring him several bottles, and pet his hair reassuringly while William told him all about the maniac posing as a policeman telling him aliens want to eat him.

“I don’t think you’d get very far with the lawsuit,” Harkness continues obliviously. “From what I saw – “ the leer returns in full force. William takes another step back just for good measure. “ – you don’t have much to stand on. That was definitely an invitation, for that species. The only thing you didn’t do was shake your ass directly at it, but from what I saw, you came awfully close. Not to mention the brief display of self-asphyxiation. Nothing gets one of those things hot like a little auto-erotic choking action. Plus, there was the backbend. It’s nice to see someone that flexible.” He winks. He actually fucking _winks._ William is frozen in complete horror. “Did I mention I’d seen the footage?”

William eyes the door to the dressing room, eyes Harkness, and decides to make a break for it. He only gets as far as the end of the couch, though, before Harkness corners him. For such a laidback-looking guy, he’s awfully fast. William’s heart is pounding double-time in his chest. This is it, he thinks. He’s going to be killed by a guy in a coat that Mikeyway would die for, mere moments after an apparent _alien_ tried to impale him on a fork and have him for supper. This is not how he imagined his life story would end.

“Not your type, huh?” Harkness asks rhetorically, arms held loosely out to the sides and completely blocking the door. “Pity; after I read all those stories about you on the Internet, I’d thought we could do this the fun way.”

“I’ll scream,” William threatens, because fuck being manly, he’ll shriek the venue down if it saves his ass. He doesn’t have _that_ much pride.

“Woah, relax,” Harkness soothes, both hands up in front of him. “Take it easy. Drink your tea. Let’s both stay calm here.”

 _Easy for you to say,_ William thinks, but tea suddenly seems like a very good idea, and it’s not like it could hurt anything. He takes a quick sip, and then a deeper, nerve-easing swallow. Harkness stays where he is. William feels a little bit better.

“There,” Harkness says. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

William looks at him and tries to gauge the exact depth of his insanity. He might not be frothing-at-the-mouth lunatic asylum material, but he can’t be many steps behind. He believes in _aliens._ He’s also trying to reassure an attempted murder victim by telling him to drink fucking _tea._

The rooms spins a little bit, and William almost loses the tea cup. He drops it a second later, hands gone suddenly numb, and Harkness catches him before he can follow the cup down to the ratty carpeting.

He blinks his eyes open and says dazedly, “What…?”

“You feeling better now?” the man in front of him asks, grinning but with an edge of concern. “You looked a little out of it there for a minute. I think it’s the heat. Can I get you anything?”

“No,” William says, pushing himself back upright. The man holds onto his arms for a moment longer, making sure he’s steady on his feet, and then eases back. “Sorry…”

“Captain Jack Harkness,” the man says, not seeming to mind William’s confusion. “I’m with venue security, just checking up on things. Seriously, you okay?”

“Fine,” William says, without really taking stock of whether that’s true. He thinks it is, though. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Captain Jack Harkness replies, flashing a grin. He has a nice smile. William smiles back absentmindedly, and the man’s smile stretches into a grin. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Enjoy the rest of your tour,” he says.

“Thanks,” William says again, automatically. He starts to walk back to the dressing room and nearly trips over a teacup. One of the other guys must have tossed it in here. Butcher, probably. Maybe he’d been juggling again.

The inside of the cup is stained a funny color when he turns it over. Brownish-green, with dull streaks of red among the dregs. Some sort of leaf tea, undoubtedly. The Welsh are very particular about their tea. It’s probably organic and steeped for exactly three-point-five minutes or something.

He shakes his head and heads for the dressing room. Wales is so strange.


	11. No place like home for the holidays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spencer/Brendon, warning for s/D.

Spencer has just had the laziest, most amazing Christmas ever. He doesn’t think he can move right now, he’s so full of cranberry sauce and turkey and stuffing and potatoes and green beans and pumpkin pie, all served to him bite-by-delicious-bite, and it’s a pity that their doorbell just rang, because Spencer seriously cannot move.

“I’ll get it,” Brendon says. Spencer’s glad now that he’d told Brendon to put some pants on and stop being so distracting not so long ago, because Brendon had spent the entire meal on his knees, holding serving dishes steadily in front of him, head tilted up and completely naked. Knowing Brendon, he would have been perfectly happy to stay that way all weekend.

Spencer’s also glad that Brendon got off on it as much as they’d hoped, and grateful that their gravy hadn’t been too hot, because Spencer may have spilled a little. The cranberry sauce, too. He went after that, though. With his mouth.

He’s dreamy-eyed just thinking about it, and barely notices Brendon going by, tugging on a t-shirt before he answers the door. He watches the lazy swing of Brendon’s ass, well-fucked and maybe a little sore, probably still bright red and hot beneath the soft fabric of his sweatpants. Brendon’s head pops out of the shirt, hair disheveled, and Spencer’s brain actually ticks through a few seconds playing _what’s wrong with this picture?_ before it hits him.

“Oh, _shit,_ ” he says out loud, nearly tripping over the back of the sofa in his haste. “Brendon, wait…”

It’s too late. Brendon has the door open, looking back over his shoulder at Spencer in confusion, and Jon and Ryan are standing there beaming at them, wearing Hawaiian shirts and sunglasses because they are morons, even if it does still feel like summertime in Vegas.

“Surprise!” Jon announces, big cheesy grin matching Ryan’s. Spencer tries to school his expression from ‘horrified’ into merely ‘surprised.’ Jon continues obliviously, “You didn’t think we’d leave you alone completely on Christmas, did you? Our flight just got back in about an hour ago.”

“Aloha,” Ryan says solemnly. “You’d better have saved me some turkey. I can smell it. It’s not that tofu stuff, is it?”

Spencer tries to get his jaw unfrozen to answer, but he knows it’s too late when he sees Jon’s gaze focus on Brendon’s neck and turn quizzical. Ryan is only half-a-beat behind. Brendon looks at each one of them in turn, lost. Spencer’s mind is still racing to come up with something when Ryan says slowly, “Is that a…”

“Collar,” Spencer supplies, and adds hastily, “for Dylan. Well, not for Dylan, but another kind of dog like Dylan. Bigger than Dylan. We thought maybe if we saw what she needed and then took a guess and used Brendon as a substitute…”

“Yeah, totally,” Brendon jumps in, _finally_ , his brief look of shock finally replaced with something a little more easygoing, even if it is strained around the edges. Spencer drops a hand surreptitiously to squeeze his hip. “They don’t measure these things by breed or anything, how are you supposed to know? And it’s for a gift. A doggie Christmas gift. I know, it looks stupid, right? We were just…”

“Collar modeling,” Spencer says straight-faced, and Brendon nods fervently beside him.

“Uh-huh,” Ryan says slowly. He slowly tears his gaze away from Brendon’s encircled throat and gives Spencer a look that clearly says, _I know you’re lying, you fucker, but do I really want to know?_

 _No,_ Spencer sends back desperately. _No, you really don’t._ Out loud he says, “Come in, get some turkey. We’ll be right with you.”

“Uh-huh,” Ryan says again. Jon’s grinning, the bastard. Spencer rips Brendon out of his shellshock by just grabbing an arm and hauling him to the bedroom. Brendon doubles up as soon as they have the door closed, arms wrapped around his stomach and gasping for breath.

“Oh fuck,” he says, laughing. “Fuck, _shit._ ”

“I tried to stop you,” Spencer says grimly, but he’s smiling in spite of himself. He unthreads the tongue from the buckle, because Brendon doesn’t do this himself, not ever, and Brendon obligingly straightens as soon as he feels Spencer’s hands on his neck.

“Sorry,” Brendon whispers, chin still tilted up in Spencer’s hand. He’s beautiful like this, quiet and still. Spencer leans in and kisses him without thinking about it, light and warm.

“Don’t worry about it,” he whispers back.

Brendon’s lips are lightly chapped, and Spencer can still taste whipped cream from the pie (and from Spencer’s fingers pushing into his mouth). Brendon makes a little contented noise, letting Spencer back him into the closed door and push his hands up under Brendon’s shirt, abandoning the half-undone collar.

“Jon and Ryan,” Brendon whispers in reminder, not moving away.

“They’ve got leftover turkey,” Spencer points out, pinning Brendon against the door with his hips. “They can wait.”


	12. Untitled ficlet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spencer/Brendon/Shane or gen, for disarm_d.

They’re not on tour and Spencer is bored.

It seems like everyone has someone else now. Ryan has Keltie, and Jon has Cassie, and Brendon has Shane. Well, Brendon might not have Shane in the same way as the others, but they’re still attached at the hip. Spencer’s not actually sure, sometimes, that they’re _not_ like the others. He thinks Brendon would have told them, since Brendon can’t keep his mouth shut about anything, much less when he’s getting laid, but then again maybe not. They’re all pretty laidback, but that doesn’t mean Brendon is ready to be out and proud and dress in rainbows.

Well, he’d probably do the rainbow thing anyway, but then so would Ryan.

He realizes he’s been staring blankly at his laptop desktop (bden wuz here! with a hopelessly crooked smiley face drawn in garish yellow) for the last fifteen minutes thinking about gay rainbow themes and whether they could convince Jon to wear a cloud beret, and snaps the screen shut with an annoyed little huff.

He loves being home. Vacations are awesome. No tour bus, no screaming fans, no awkward interviews, no waiting for Zack to give them the all-clear before going to get a simple sandwich. He’s enjoying the break.

He just wishes he weren’t so fucking bored.

He picks up his phone and automatically taps Ryan’s speed-dial, but then remembers he’s out to dinner with Keltie at some fancy romantic place and finds Brendon’s number instead.

“Urie-Valdes household,” Brendon answers, sounding a little breathless. “Urie speaking.”

“Brendon?” Spencer says, which is kind of stupid, but not as stupid as Brendon answering the phone like that when Spencer called his cell phone and he knows Brendon has caller ID.

“Spence!” Brendon answers, sounding delighted. “Dude, what’s up? I haven’t heard from you in two days, I was beginning to get separation anxiety. Are you with Ross?”

“No,” Spencer says. “He’s with…”

“Agh,” Brendon cuts him off, with a weird fade-out that means he’s probably not holding the phone up to his ear anymore. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Spencer answers, confused, but then he hears another muffled voice in the background, undoubtedly Shane.

Brendon says something in reply that Spencer can’t make out, and then says more clearly, “Sorry. We’re, uh, cleaning. Sort of. So what, did you miss me already?”

“No,” Spencer tells him, because Brendon won’t believe the lie anyway. “Not for a minute. Hey, so do you…?”

“What the fuck is that?” Brendon interrupts, in mixed tones of delight and horror. “Are those _jumper cables?_ When I said we could get kinky, I didn’t mean you could try to kill me. Are you licensed to use those? I don’t think…oh my god…aaaaahhhh!”

Spencer pauses, waiting for the agonized screaming to end. “Brendon?”

There’s another shout, this time trailing off into more of a dying gurgle, and then Shane’s voice on the other end of the line. “Hi. Spencer? Spencer’s phone?”

“Spencer,” Spencer tells him.

“Hey,” Shane says easily. “Sorry Brendon can’t come to the phone right now, he’s being a douchebag.”

Somewhere in the background, Brendon starts making buzzing electrified sounds and moans of agony.

“Right,” Spencer says slowly. “Well, uh. Have a good day.”

“Thanks, you too,” Shane says. Spencer hears Brendon’s muffled voice going “Aaaaaaaaghhh,” again before the line goes dead.

Spencer looks at his phone for a minute. He flips it open and taps Ryan’s speed dial. He remembers and flips it closed again. He thinks about calling Jon, but he’s not buzzed or stoned, which makes talking to Jon something of a translation challenge.

He flips his phone open again, sighs, and ends up playing stupid simple video games on it for five minutes before he gets bored with that and opens up a window to text Brendon.

 _douche_ , he sends.

He waits for about a minute, tapping out a rhythm on his thigh with the phone, before it buzzes and beeps. _shut up u feel better now y?_

He thinks about it for a minute, then sends, _maybe_.

It doesn’t take as long for the reply this time. _come on over ill make shane cook those sausage things_.

Spencer considers. He’s fine here, really. He’s independent. He could have a quiet evening in and not encroach on their space.

Or whatever, who the fuck is he kidding. _be right there_ he writes, standing up to grab his jacket.

Brendon sends, _:-)_

AND THEN THEY ALL HAVE SEX.

KINKY SEX.

…NOT WITH JUMPER CABLES.

THE END. \o/


	13. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brendon/Shane, for disarm_d, warning for s/D.

Shane gets back from the grocery store to find that Brendon’s beaten him home. He can tell because after two weeks of Brendon’s hybrid not taking up the entirety of the driveway, it’s now back and in his way when he goes to park. He hadn’t been expecting Brendon back this early in the day, since usually after a label thing he goes to hang out with the rest of his band for a while. Most of the time they call Shane to come over and hang with them.

“Brendon?” he calls as he walks through the front door, juggling bags and tossing his keys into the pottery bowl on the kitchen table. “Bren?”

Brendon’s not in the kitchen or living room, obviously, and not in the room they use as an office, either. Shane takes a second guess, and pushes open the door to the master bedroom to find Brendon waiting inside.

“Hey,” he says. “Good trip?”

Brendon’s eyes are wide and dark brown, and he isn’t moving much, which is just unusual enough to give Shane pause. Then Brendon appears to defeat whatever he was struggling with in order to launch himself at Shane, wrapping his arms around him and burying his nose in the side of Shane’s neck. “I missed you,” he mumbles, inhaling.

“I can tell by the way you’re…dude, are you _sniffing_ me?” Shane asks, pulling back to share a grin with Brendon. Brendon still looks serious, though, looks jittery and tired, like he’s had a long week and it hasn’t left his shoulders yet. Shane knows how that feels. “Hey. Everything okay?”

Brendon shrugs, reverting to casual dorky-dude posture like everything’s cool. “Just missed you,” he says, which Shane already knew, but twice in a row means it’s serious. Brendon also hasn’t moved from the foot of the bed.

“Were you just hanging out in here?” Shane asks, forehead wrinkling. “When did you get home?”

Brendon shrugs again. “A few hours ago. I was waiting for you.”

He’s looking at the carpet, and their carpet is not all that enthralling, so Shane gives him to the count of ten to look before he tips Brendon’s chin up and says softly, “Hey.”

Brendon holds his gaze, steady and open. Shane leaves his hand there, feeling the slightly-quick beat of Brendon’s pulse, before he drops it away.

“Okay,” he says out loud. “I have groceries to put away, though. You want to do this now?”

Brendon nods, quick and short. “I can help,” he offers, bouncing forward on his toes a little. Shane recognizes the energy now, the restless spill of movement without focus.

Shane stops him with one hand on his shoulder, and squeezes just hard enough to get Brendon’s attention. “You stay here,” he says, and the pressure of his hand changes, pushing down until Brendon yields and drops to his knees on the carpet, looking up. “I’ll take care of it.”

Brendon looks almost pathetically grateful to him even for this much. Shane wonders how bad the press tour with the label really was, and wants to kick himself a little for not going along. At the time, it had seemed like an obvious decision.

He goes and gets the collar from their closet, the leash coiled neatly next to it. He kneels in front of Brendon to fasten the buckle, guiding him gently with his hands and a quiet, “Chin up.”

The leash comes next, but he’s just shaken it out when he hears the frantic scrabble of claws against the linoleum floor, and then he has about four seconds to prepare before Dylan’s featherweight hits him in the side, trying to knock him to the carpet. He wrestles with her to get the leash back, getting dog slobber in his ear for his trouble, and finally pushes her back, still laughing.

“Not yours, no,” he tells her, while she runs around in an uncomprehending circle, trying to jump up on Brendon now. “This is Bden’s. Hey, calm down.”

He clips the leash onto Brendon’s collar, fending Dylan off with one hand scratching between her ears, and pulls it around behind Brendon’s back. He runs one hand down Brendon’s spine, pulling the leash taut, and loops it around the wrists Brendon already has crossed behind his back.

“Hey, stop that,” he tells Dylan mildly when she starts licking Brendon’s face. “Come on, I’ll take you out.”

She follows him when he leaves the room, racing him to the front door where _her_ leash is waiting on the hook. He doesn’t look back, but Brendon had been still and quiet even when Dylan was in the room, so he’s not worried. Brendon’s good at waiting when he has a reason.

He takes Dylan out, letting her run off the excess energy – she doesn’t have to go, Brendon must have taken her out earlier when he got back – and then talks to her as he unloads the groceries from the bags and puts them away in the cabinet. It’s as much for Brendon as it is for her, the monologue on dog food and pizza bites and ice cream, his voice raised just enough to be heard through the open door to the bedroom.

When he’s finished, he rolls around on the floor with Dylan for a while, tussling with her over her rag-toy. He feels less guilty then about turning her away at the end of the hall and closing the bedroom door behind him with a quiet click. He hears the jingle of her collar as she investigates, her nose low to the ground at the crack under the door, and then she turns around and wanders off, probably to chew some more on the rag.

Brendon’s still waiting exactly where Shane left him, head held up by the leash, arms behind his back. Shane looks him over, thinks that maybe his shoulders have dropped a little, the stiffness eased. He crosses to the armchair in the corner, letting his legs splay open, and beckons.

Brendon comes, shuffling carefully on his knees, coming to rest in front of him. Shane cradles Brendon’s cheek in his palm, feeling the heat both of arousal and of shame, probably, that Shane is seeing Brendon like this, getting him to do this. There are a few things that they haven’t been able to train out of Brendon, and this – embarrassment at being treated with care, cherished, _handled_ \- is one of them.

Shane reaches past Brendon for the leash, threading it between his legs and holding the loop on the end in his right hand. He takes up just enough slack to pull Brendon’s arms taut against his back, pinning them behind him. A little more and Brendon’s chin comes up further, too, eyes quiet and serious. He hasn’t broken eye contact, which is good. Shane worries when he hides.

He leans back in the chair and flicks the leash lazily from side to side, a twitch that slaps it against the insides of Brendon’s thighs. Brendon knows what he wants; spreads wider almost immediately until the muscles in his thighs are tense from just holding himself up. Shane rewards him with another caress, this time the lightest squeeze above the collar surrounding Brendon’s throat.

The silence is charged, but not uncomfortable. He doesn’t worry about breaking it; Brendon can take cues from him just like this, without any anxiety. Shane draws the leash even tighter, raising his hand, and the fabric pulls across Brendon’s groin, between his legs.

Brendon’s mouth drops open, probably unconsciously. Shane tugs gently, enough to rub the leash against Brendon’s crotch through his jeans, and then keeps pulling, more and more pressure. Brendon holds out for as long as he can, arching his back and tilting his head back as he runs out of slack, panting up at the ceiling when Shane forces him into a position that makes it difficult to breathe.

Shane keeps pulling, and eventually Brendon can’t balance anymore, jerks forward on one knee to catch himself and lets out a noise of surprise and disappointment. Shane smiles a little, reassuring, and keeps pulling until Brendon moves again, bent backwards and crawling awkwardly on his knees towards Shane in the chair.

Shane eases up when Brendon runs out of room, his knees knocking into the bottom of the chair. He rubs Brendon’s neck again, squeezes his shoulder, and then slides his fingers into Brendon’s hair and pulls.

Brendon makes another low noise, panting hard, but this is all it usually takes, Brendon on his knees with his hair caught up in Shane’s fingers, to help him let go of whatever it is he’s carrying with him. Shane gives him a little shake, and Brendon’s shoulders drop like he’s been cut from a puppeteer’s strings, his breath coming out heavy in a long exhale.

Shane unzips his pants, eases his grip on Brendon’s hair, and sits back in his chair.

Brendon takes this cue just as well as he had the others, nuzzling at Shane’s underwear and mouthing the fabric until it’s moist from his tongue. Shane helps him out then, silently pushing his underwear down, lifting his cock free for Brendon to suck. Brendon moves so quickly to take him in that he catches Shane’s fingers as well, sucking them in along with the head of Shane’s cock and pushing his tongue in between.

Shane loves the way Brendon sucks cock. He does it like it’s not a chore, not a favor to be repaid, not a prelude to anything else. He does it like he genuinely enjoys it, and like he wants Shane to enjoy it, but every now and then, there’s also the pink flare of heat in his cheeks when he remembers what he must look like, how he must sound. Shane waits for it, waits for Brendon to moan softly around his cock and make a mess drooling over the shaft, unable to catch it all with his tongue, waits for the flush to spread over Brendon’s face and neck. Then he strokes Brendon’s cheek, rubbing just below the bone with his thumb, pushing hard enough to feel his cock pushing in and out of Brendon’s mouth.

Brendon flushes harder, but he also sucks gratefully at Shane’s cock, slurping messily over the head. Shane pulls his hips back slightly and slides his hand up into Brendon’s hair again to keep him from following, gripping tightly enough to make Brendon blink, his eyes springing suddenly wet. Brendon understands his intent and goes obediently pliant, mouth open wide and tongue out of the way when Shane pushes his cock back in.

Shane fucks Brendon’s mouth for long enough to get close, to feel the tingle in his balls. He can’t come like this easily, but that’s not what he wants anyway. He fucks Brendon’s mouth until he’s close, and then he pulls out and strokes his cock with the hand still holding Brendon’s leash, pulling it tight again so that Brendon has to tilt his face up or choke.

He can see Brendon get it, his eyes wide, and then that same hot flush of shame and arousal, creeping up beneath the dark stripe of the collar. Shane keeps watching him, keeps stroking, and when Brendon opens his mouth and holds his tongue out to catch Shane’s come, that’s when he lets go.

Brendon doesn’t catch it all, of course, but it’s not like Shane is any good at aiming. He gets some of it on his tongue, some clinging to his lips, and some painted in erratic stripes across his face and chest. Shane takes a minute to just breathe, unwinding and coming down, and then he swipes his finger through the mess on Brendon’s cheek and offers his fingers. Brendon sucks hard, cleaning him off with the same enthusiasm he’d just shown Shane’s cock, and the same creeping traces of embarrassment, although they fade quickly once Shane starts stroking Brendon’s tongue.

Shane lets them both come down some, and then he twists three fingers inside Brendon’s mouth and lets them slip free. Brendon’s eyelids are heavy, relaxed, and his spine is liquid when Shane pulls the leash taut again and bends him backwards. He kisses Brendon properly, a welcome-home kiss with their mouths aligned and tongues entwined, and only eases back when Brendon makes a soft, plaintive noise and his body arches further back, hips trying to rise.

Shane drops one more kiss on his upturned lips and says, “Not yet. You’re home for the weekend, right? We’ve got plenty of time.”

Brendon’s noises turn from hope to frustration in the space of a second, but Shane doesn’t miss how he relaxes even further, settling in to wait. For as long as Shane asks.

Shane runs his thumb over Brendon’s mouth, smiles and says softly, “That’s my boy.”


	14. Growing up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spencer/Ryan

Ryan clambers through Spencer’s window just after midnight, and neither of them comments on it, even though Ryan could just as easily have gone to the front door and Spencer’s mom would have let him in, no matter the hour. His parents are still awake downstairs; Spencer can hear the television on, muted through the floorboards in Spencer’s bedroom. He thinks Ryan probably just took the most expedient route, and the one he’s most used to taking after dark.

Ryan has been staying over a lot lately for sleepovers. There are two kinds of sleepovers though, now that they’re teenagers; there’s the kind where they stay up all night talking and drinking coke and playing video games, which they’ve been doing since they were in elementary school, and there’s the new kind, the kind where Ryan tells his dad he’s at Spencer’s and then slips out in the middle of the night to meet a girl.

Tonight hadn’t been either of those, but Ryan is dressed pretty nicely, for Ryan, so Spencer guesses he’s not the last stop on the neighborhood tour tonight. He’s wearing the cologne he always wears on dates, and his less-battered pair of sneakers.

“I need help,” Ryan says, climbing down out of the windowsill. “I have a date tonight.”

“Okay,” Spencer says. He’s used to this now, or getting more used to it, anyway; being the guy that Ryan goes to for advice about girls. “What’s up?”

“I got…” Ryan fumbles with the bag he has slung over his shoulder, and pulls out a pair of…Spencer blinks…handcuffs.

Spencer closes his eyes for a second, but when he opens them, the handcuffs are still there, dangling bright and shiny from Ryan’s finger. “Really?” he asks skeptically, because he’s not sure what else to say.

“I met her at a club. She’s, you know, she’s older. She said she was into kinky stuff, like, uh…” Ryan fumbles again, pulling a handful of tinkling metal from the bag.

“What are _those_?” Spencer asks, unable to help staring now. He knows he’s acting like a virgin, but he can’t help it, and anyway, Ryan already knows. Ryan’s probably the one person in the world Spencer doesn’t have to posture in front of.

Ryan frowns. “They’re clamps,” he says. “They go on, like…” He reaches for Spencer’s hand, and before Spencer can decide whether or not to retract it, there’s a complicated-looking metal clasp gripping the pad of his thumb.

He shakes it around a little, and is impressed when it doesn’t budge. “Huh.” He readjusts the clamp, considering. “So these are for…”

Ryan gestures to his chest in a way that says meaningfully, _breasts._ Spencer tries to keep his eyes from widening, but holy shit. Ryan doesn’t seem to notice, saying, “That’s what I wanted to show you. I mean, I know how they go on, but I didn’t know if I should surprise her with them, or like, just whip them out, or what.”

“I don’t think whipping them out is such a good idea,” Spencer says dryly. Ryan may be older and more experienced, but sometimes he’s dumb about girls.

Ryan nods thoughtfully, and says, “Maybe I should try them out.”

Spencer instinctively draws one hand back to cover his chest, shaking his head. “Nuh-uh.”

Ryan rolls his eyes. “On _me,_ dumbass.” He picks up a clamp, turning it over in his palm. “I should probably know how they work, right?”

“It seems pretty straightforward,” Spencer says dubiously, but Ryan’s already stripping out of his shirt. He tosses it on the floor and looks down at his pale chest, considering. Spencer says, “You’re not actually going to…” and then stops himself, because Ryan actually _did._

“Ow,” he says immediately, pulling the clamp back off. “Ow, fuck, why do people do that?”

“Give it to me,” Spencer orders, because Ryan is a wuss about pain, but he’s probably also doing it wrong. “Hold still.”

Ryan obediently stays put, looking at the ceiling while Spencer pinches the skin of his chest and gently releases the clamp until it grips onto Ryan’s hard brown nipple. He knows when it really starts biting in, because Ryan hisses softly, his long-fingered hands curling up and digging into his thighs.

“Okay?” Spencer asks, and Ryan nods stiffly.

“Do the other one,” he orders. Spencer’s already reaching, warming the metal in his hand before setting it gently in place. Ryan looks strange like this, and a little silly, but also surprisingly hot. Spencer thinks it’s okay to ignore the fact that Ryan has an inappropriate hard-on if it means they can pretend Spencer isn’t hard as well. It’s for a girl, after all.

“How long can you keep them on?” Spencer asks. Ryan shakes his head, lips tight, and reaches for the clamp on the left. As soon as his fingers brush it, though, he hisses again, and Spencer catches at his hand without thinking. “I’ve got it,” he says. “You want them off.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says. He fidgets until Spencer says, “Hold still,” reaching for the clamp again.

Spencer takes the clamp off carefully, his fingertips brushing Ryan’s skin. There’s a trick to it; putting the wrong kind of pressure on them means they squeeze tighter, so Spencer has to trigger the release mechanism without tugging or twisting. Ryan half-curls over on himself when Spencer unclasps the first one, and Spencer stares at the dark, angry flush coloring Ryan’s nipple. His eyes flick up to meet Ryan’s, and then away again, and he distracts them both by reaching to take the other one off.

This time he doesn’t get the trigger right immediately, and Ryan makes a noise, a low sound of pain wrapped up with _please_ , and Spencer’s hands tremble. He gets the clamp off and holds it out, dropping it into Ryan’s hand without meeting his eyes.

“I think you’ve got it now,” he says, clearing his throat. “Just make sure you hit that little point on the side when you take them off.”

Ryan nods, silent. They sit there for a while, long enough for Spencer to hear the television click off and his parents talking as they prepare to come upstairs.

Ryan finally unfreezes, fumbling for his shirt on the floor and tugging it back over his head. “Thanks, Spence,” he says, grabbing for his bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Spencer says. He waits until Ryan climbs out and drops safely to the lawn before he shuts the window, turning off his light and climbing into bed without finishing the chapter he’d been reading before Ryan’s surprise visit.

He reaches for his cock under the covers, and tries not to think about anything.


	15. Gangbang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Panic! GSF

Brendon’s arms were stretched above his head, wrists pinned to the carpet by Spencer’s hands. His back was arched, stretching his rib cage out, pushing it into even sharper definition every time Ryan thrust slowly and he inhaled. His mouth was open, tongue and lips red from the candy canes he’d been stealing from the decorations all over the cabin. If Spencer licked his lips, he would taste like peppermint.

Jon was on the carpet beside them, stroking his cock lazily. One of the best things about being in their own private mountain resort was having several dozen enormous rooms all to themselves. “Can I fuck his mouth?” he asked conversationally, pausing mid-pull to rub his thumb over the head.

Brendon made a high whining noise in his throat and twisted a little against Spencer’s grip. He was spread wide by Ryan’s hands, shaking with that slow, measured thrusts Ryan always started with to give his partners time to adjust. “Not until Ryan actually fucks me,” he said, and then gasped when Spencer tightened his grip minutely, fingernails biting into Brendon’s wrists.

“Are you giving orders?” Spencer asked curiously, shifting his grip to one hand so that the other was free to stroke up Brendon’s neck, palm sliding under his chin. The bones in Brendon’s wrists grated as he half-fought Spencer’s hold, and he panted shallow breaths, swallowing tightly under Spencer’s hand.

Brendon didn’t answer with words, just arched harder, enough to draw a satisfying grunt out of Ryan. Spencer rubbed his jaw, contemplating. “Is he even in deep enough yet?”

“No,” Jon answered promptly. When they all swiveled to look at him, prompting another helpless whine from Brendon, he shrugged and said, “What? I can see from here.”

Spencer squeezed, gently and carefully, around Brendon’s throat, feeling the muscles pulse when he swallowed again. “Up and over,” he prompted. Ryan was already pulling out, lazily stroking his own cock, and Jon was eyeing him speculatively.

Brendon rolled onto hands and knees without protest, folding back into Ryan’s hands on his hips, dropping his head when Ryan spread his ass open wide and pushed back in. Spencer caught a handful of his hair and pulled back, and Brendon’s eyes opened again, half-glazed as Ryan picked up the pace a little, grinding in deeper. Spencer grinned and pulled back just a little harder, and Brendon groaned, echoed by Ryan as Brendon presumably clenched around his cock (Spencer was proud of that particular Pavlovian response) and arched his back.

Spencer let his grip ease, and Brendon’s mouth dropped open, lips wet. He strained forward, and for a second Spencer was tempted to give him what he was after and just push his head down onto Spencer’s cock.

Jon was there, though, and Jon was the one who asked, “Is that a yes or a no on the blowjob?”

Spencer grinned at him. “Yes,” he said, reaching out to help guide Jon’s cock into Brendon’s open mouth. “And you can jerk me off while you’re at it.”


	16. Panic! goes flying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Panic! gen

When Ryan had asked at the tourist information center about an aerial tour of the gorge, blankly curious behind oversized rock star sunglasses, Spencer didn’t think this was exactly what he’d had in mind.

This was what Zack had approved, though, and what hadn’t been instantly shot down by one or another of them – “Boring.” “Too easy.” “Weren’t we just _on_ a plane?” – as soon as it had been suggested.

“I really wanted to go hang gliding,” Brendon mourned, peering over the edge.

“Or base jumping,” Jon suggested, straight-faced.

“You wouldn’t go base jumping if there was a trapped kitten needing to be rescued at the bottom,” Spencer scorned. He knew Jon. Jon was a beer-belching champion and the very best at protecting Brendon when the fans got a little too pushy, but he was also a giant wuss.

“I wouldn’t,” Ryan said, leaning over the side next to Brendon. Spencer surreptitiously edged closer so he could hook a finger in their belt loops if necessary.

“I don’t know,” Jon said, scratching his beard and considering. “A kitten.”

“I totally would,” Brendon said, leaning out even further. He probably would, too. Luckily, Spencer thought, Zack would never, ever let him, upon threat of slow and painful death.

“This is kind of boring,” Ryan said suddenly.

Spencer didn’t agree. They were moving slowly, sure, but it was nice, being up here in the sky, just the four of them, looking down at the ground below. “I like it,” he said, leaning back against one of the ropes.

“It’s a little tame,” Brendon agreed, but Brendon thought that hot chili pepper eating contests were tame, so he didn’t get to be the judge.

“There’s fire,” Spencer pointed out, gesturing to the center of the balloon, which was currently belching flame to keep them aloft and drifting.

“True,” Brendon said, and added, “There’s no rockets or anything, though. Rockets would be cool.”

“We should get jet packs next time,” Jon said, grinning over at Brendon. “Rocket-jet-pack tour of a national monument.”

Ryan leaned further out of the basket, frowning, and said, “I think I can see Zack.”

“Does he look mad?” Brendon asked, moving over closer to Ryan. Jon went to join them, not leaning over quite as far. Spencer still checked the distance for belt loop grabbing range.

The rest of them were looking down over the sides at the ground below. Spencer was keeping an eye on his band.


	17. Jon/Spencer kink

“I don’t know,” Jon said doubtfully. “I’ve never done this before.”

“It came out of a vending machine in a gas station bathroom for seventy-five cents,” Spencer pointed out. “It’s not exactly the height of hardcore kink.”

“What if it lessens sensitivity or something?” Jon asked. He had started out stroking his cock, but now he was just sort of cradling it protectively towards his stomach.

Spencer caught his fingers and drew them away, sneaking his own hand in to replace Jon’s. “I’m going to blow you,” he said conversationally. “And then I’m going to blow your _mind._ ”

Jon still looked doubtful, a tiny frown on his face, but it slackened out into an expression of surprised bliss once Spencer worked the little rubber ring over his cock and turned on the vibration.

“Shit, Spencer,” Jon said, slack-mouthed and shocked. “ _Spencer._ ”

“Mmm,” Spencer agreed, taking advantage of Jon’s distraction to slide down over his cock. It took him a few sucks to relax his throat enough to really go down, but once he did, he could feel Jon against the base of his throat, practically trembling with the strain of holding still.

“Nnngh,” Jon strangled out, hips twitching. Spencer had a good grip on his hips already, but he dug his fingers in when he eased back, swallowing, and then went down again. This time Jon slipped easily past his gag reflex and Spencer buried his nose in Jon’s pubic hair, smelling musk. His lips buzzed, vibrating with the ring around Jon’s cock.

“Fuck,” Jon managed, his muscles tensing and jerking under the pads of Spencer’s fingers. “Spencer, fuck, please.”

Spencer waited for a minute, then swallowed. Jon made a noise that Spencer had never heard before, and smacked his knuckles hard against the wall of the bunk.

Spencer slid off Jon’s cock, licking the tingle from his lips. “If you bring Ryan and Brendon back here to find out what’s going on,” he warned, squeezing Jon’s hips for emphasis, “this is never coming off.”

He tugged at the rubber ring, and Jon panted, pulling himself back under control again. “Yes,” he said, voice not quite hushed enough for secrecy. “Anything. I’ll do anything.”

Spencer arched his eyebrows, because Jon didn’t generally give him _carte blanche_ like that, but he was too occupied right now with the buzz under his fingertips to think of anything else. He rubbed Jon’s cock a little with his thumb, sliding it around the edge of the ring and underneath. “What do you want?” he asked, because having Jon in this position never got old.

“You,” Jon gasped. “Your mouth. _Please._ ”

“If you come down my throat, it stays on,” Spencer promised, and tongued the head of Jon’s cock just long enough to hear the keen before he slid down and smiled, smugly satisfied around his mouthful, as Jon promptly bit his own tongue.

He rolled Jon’s balls in his hand, risking a one-handed grip on Jon’s hips for the moment and pulling back just enough that Jon wouldn’t choke him if he lost control and thrust. Jon went rigid, back arching off the thin mattress, and his cock jerked heavily on Spencer’s tongue.

Spencer had a feeling the ring would be staying right where it was.


	18. Gabe/William, dancing in space

“I prefer Chtokothek’s _Canon in R Minor, Diminished,_ ” William murmured when the music started. “Actually.”

“This is a classic,” Gabe chided, reaching out one hand and bowing from the waist the way they did on old film reels. “I have it on good authority.”

“Time travelers from the ballroom era?” William asked. He took a few steps closer, but didn’t accept, not yet.

“Better,” Gabe said, grinning. He waited until William had put himself in range – as good as taking Gabe’s hand, and the best he was going to get – before standing and pulling William in against his chest. “Cached archival footage of reality television specials.”

William’s eyebrows arched. Gabe splayed his hand across the small of William’s back, fingers spread to touch as much warm heat radiating through fabric as he possibly could, and guided them both through the first light steps.

“Kind of counterproductive, isn’t it?” William asked, turning his head obligingly when Gabe changed directions. “This song?”

“Reverse psychology,” Gabe argued, bending William gently backwards over his hand and taking a moment to appreciate the line of his throat. “I can’t dance, don’t ask me? The only one better would be ‘Anything you can do, I can do better’, but there’s nothing in that song about dancing.”

William turned with him easily, more easily than Gabe had expected, considering how everything else about William up until this point had been a battle of wills to the end of the universe. “I suppose that wasn’t on the reality television specials,” he considered.

“I wouldn’t know,” Gabe admitted, touching his cheek to William’s so that William could feel him grin. “I only watched one, and then I was too impatient to wait.”

William turned his head again, forcing Gabe to shift with him or lose his balance. “Had to have me right then?” he asked dryly. His eyes were serious, though, narrowed and watchful.

Gabe chuckled, low and sensual. “Baby,” he murmured into the tickle of William’s hair against his face, “I had to have you from the moment I saw you.”

William paused, only briefly, but Gabe felt it against his hands, in the way their thighs pressed together for a beat too long on the turn. William’s voice was surprisingly mild when he asked, “So what are you waiting for, then?”

Gabe idly wondered when William had started leading. Then he decided he didn’t really care.


	19. Ryan/Spencer roadtrip

“Road trip,” Ryan groaned, the first sound Spencer registered beyond the muffled chattering of birds outside the windows. “Honestly.”

Spencer woke up slowly, not giving Ryan the satisfaction. He stretched out and cracked an eye open, checking the position of the sun instead of his watch. It had been a long time since he’d bothered to pay attention that hummed, beeped or ticked.

One of their phones chirped from the back, as if in response. Spencer didn’t bother to pick it up. It was probably from Jon or Brendon, and said something like, _where are u?_ or _taco bell?_ or _practice tmrw y/n?_ Spencer had checked them, the first two days, but now he just didn’t care.

“You love it,” he told Ryan, tugging his shirt down from where it had ridden up in his sleep. He rubbed his belly and thought about breakfast. Waffle House, maybe. There was usually one a few miles off any given highway exit.

“I don’t love sleeping in the car,” Ryan replied, voice dry. He rolled out a crick in his neck and sat up, scooting around until he got more comfortable and snapping his seat back up from the reclining position.

Spencer followed suit, taking a few extra seconds to comb through his hair with his fingers. It was only Ryan here with him, so it didn’t really matter, but Spencer hated when his sunglasses caught in tangles.

He slid them on now, yawning, and turned the keys in the ignition. “Where to today?” he asked as the engine rumbled to life.

Ryan leaned back, wrapping his arm around the back of Spencer’s headrest, and rolled down the window. “Maybe the mountains,” he suggested, looking out the window at the landscape stretched out for miles around them. “I’m getting tired of the desert.”

“I want pancakes,” Spencer warned him, to forestall the breakfast argument they inevitably always ended up having before morning coffee. Ryan made a face but didn’t protest, which meant Spencer had won.

They would need to stop for gas soon, too. Maybe not right away; they could have breakfast and fill the tank up when they stopped for their second cup of coffee. It wasn’t critical.

Ryan’s hair was catching the slight breeze, sunglasses on against the first bright waves of heat from the desert sun.

Spencer pulled out onto the road and turned north.


	20. Jon-centric Panic! GSF

The worst part was after Cassie left.

Ryan thought maybe they hadn’t realized what Jon was like without Cassie, because they’d never _known_ Jon when he wasn’t half of Jon-and-Cassie, and it had never mattered before, but it mattered then. Jon on his own was lost and sad, and Ryan had no idea what to do.

Brendon, of course, did what he always did; he got too close and he stayed there, constantly in Jon’s space, touching and snuggling and reassuring. Ryan kept a sharp eye on them, just in case Jon got tired of Brendon’s smothering and needed a way out without being mean about it, but strangely enough, Jon never did. Jon let Brendon cuddle him, hug him, wrap his arm around him at any time of the day or night, and never said a word. He even leaned into it, and that was what got Ryan thinking about how they all thought of Jon, and about Jon-without-Cassie.

Spencer was there for Jon too, of course, they all were, but in less physical ways. Spencer had a sharp tongue and a soothing presence, and he used both frequently whenever Jon looked like he could use the break from his own head.

Ryan didn’t know quite what to do. He wasn’t soothing like Spencer, and he wasn’t cuddly like Brendon, and he had weed, but he didn’t think that was necessarily all Jon needed right now. Besides, Jon had his own weed. They had communal weed. It just wasn’t the same level of offering.

He kept being unsure until the day Jon cornered Spencer in the kitchenette, unaware that there was anyone else watching, and said, “I think…I need…”

Ryan watched Jon lean up clumsily for a kiss; watched Spencer kiss him back and run strong hands up over Jon’s back; watched Jon cling with relief and shudder into the touch. Then he stopped just watching, and decided to do something.

He cleared his throat. Jon whipped around, looking guilty, but Spencer didn’t appear even remotely concerned. He just looked at Ryan, mildly curious, and smoothed down the side of his mustache where it had been rubbed the wrong way against Jon’s cheek.

It was awkward, but Ryan finally managed to push out, “If you needed more, we could…”

He hadn’t even thought about the possibility of rejection. He didn’t think about it until the words were out there, and suddenly there was the horror of _maybe he only wanted Spencer_ , so strong it nearly flattened him.

Jon didn’t look like he’d ever been thinking that, though. He said, “That would be…” and didn’t finish it, but Ryan didn’t need him to. He folded his arms around Jon carefully, pulling him into a hug, and Jon trembled a little and let Ryan get them both positioned properly. Then Ryan went after a kiss, Jon’s lips still wet from kissing Spencer, and Ryan felt Spencer’s arms slide around Jon’s waist to rub against his stomach.

Jon blinked a few times when he pulled back, looking around. “We should…Brendon,” he said distractedly, and Ryan paused as he was about to reclaim Jon’s mouth to think that one over.

“He’s probably just waiting to make a dramatic entrance,” Spencer said over their heads.

“I am not, you fucker,” Brendon’s voice replied cheerfully from behind them. “I was being careful not to interrupt the _moment._ ”

He slid into the embrace like he already belonged there, like there was a Brendon-shaped space for him to wriggle into, and Ryan realized in surprise that there probably was. Brendon didn’t look like the possibility of rejection had occurred to him, either, not for a moment.

“Hey,” Brendon said, nuzzling in for a kiss from Jon. It was relaxed and easy, and Ryan wondered if they’d ever done this before, or thought about doing it. He’d never thought…he’d never let himself think.

“You’re going to be the one completing the circle,” Jon told Brendon when they broke apart, his smile still muted but more real than it had been for weeks.

“I’m going to be the one sucking your cock,” Brendon told him with a grin, and Ryan felt Jon’s shudder all the way down his body, and the pressure when he rocked forward automatically onto his tiptoes.

Spencer caught his eyes over Jon and Brendon’s heads, and he looked smug about something, and also perfectly in control. “Let’s do this, yeah?” he said, right to Ryan, and Ryan held onto Jon a little tighter and said, “Yeah.”


	21. Spencer/Ryan futurefic

“I thought we said we weren’t going to become cranky old men together,” Spencer said mildly as Ryan leaned back into the embrace of the porch glider, squinting into the sunset.

“I’m not old,” Ryan said immediately, tugging at the cuffs of his cardigan. “And I’m not cranky.”

“Ryan,” Spencer said patiently, “you just told those kids to get off your lawn or you were calling the cops.”

Ryan made a face, unrepentant. “They were selling something,” he said stubbornly. “They always are. They never want to just bring us anything.”

“Maybe they wanted autographs,” Spencer mused, considering. He stroked his beard, a habit born out of too many years spent on tour with Brendon demanding that he make the thinking face, and looked out after the kids.

Ryan snorted, echoing Spencer’s thoughts. “Not likely. They weren’t born when we recorded the last album; they’re all listening to Tanvis Peckingham and Jig Jive Blue.”

“Good wholesome music for the generation of today,” Spencer agreed solemnly. “’Put it in me, baby,’ is like an anthem for America’s disenchanted youth.”

Ryan muttered something undoubtedly less than flattering regarding the current Top 40 hits, but subsided when Spencer nudged his shoulder.

“Let them listen to that crap,” Spencer advised. “One day some girl will come along and introduce them to Panic at the Disco, and then we’ll have to respond to three dozen interviewers asking us if we mind that some trendy young punk ska-funk band ripped off our entire discography.”

Ryan made another face, but this one was decidedly more pleased. “Those were the days,” he said fondly, and then scowled again. “At least we weren’t _ska-funk._ ”

Spencer almost laughed at the way Ryan spat out the words like a bad taste in his mouth. “We were almost as bad,” he reminded Ryan. “Trip-hop dance cabaret.”

Ryan’s face wrinkled up like a cranky lemon, but he relaxed again easily enough, leaning back against the glider. “It was worth it, though, right?” he asked, and Spencer detected that tiny note of doubt that Ryan somehow still harbored, dozens of albums and decades later.

His hand crept out to find Ryan’s, and their fingers laced together easily, with the ease of long practice. “It was worth it,” Spencer assured him, squeezing tightly. “Every moment.”


	22. Panic! at the beach

“I will give you five hundred dollars,” Spencer said solemnly, “if you bury Brendon in wet sand.”

Jon smiled, shading his eyes to look down the beach at where Brendon was whooping and charging out into the spray, Ryan being dragged reluctantly behind him. “Too much energy?” he inquired. “We probably shouldn’t have given him that last Red Bull.”

“I want a beach holiday,” Spencer said with remarkable calm. “I want to sunbathe, and burn because I stayed out too long, and get sand in uncomfortable places but not be fucked enough to care about it. I want _quiet._ ”

“I’m on it,” Jon promised, because Ryan had been pulled in far enough to get his pristine new swim trunks wet, and he didn’t look particularly happy about it.

Jon jogged down the beach and waded into the water, letting the most recent wave pull him out deeper into the current. Brendon spotted him just as he was about to reach them, waving merrily. “Jon,” he called. “We’ve got a surfboard!”

Jon kicked his feet up and paddled for a few lazy strokes to join Brendon in the water. Ryan, he noted, had untangled himself and was heading back up the beach towards Spencer. “Hey,” he suggested, smiling. “How about you and me head out and kick some surfing ass and let Ryan and Spencer have their cranky old man time together?”

Brendon twisted around to look in the direction Ryan had gone, and then back around to focus on Jon. “They sent you in to distract me, didn’t they?” he asked.

Jon grinned. “Spencer said he’d give me five hundred dollars to bury you in the sand,” he said. “I’ll split it with you fifty-fifty if you pay for ice cream afterwards.”

Brendon considered, floating half-on his back and squinting up at the sun. The water around them was warm and mild, lapping at Jon’s skin. He almost didn’t want to get out. Five hundred dollars, though, was five hundred dollars.

“Done,” Brendon said decisively, already splashing back towards the shore. “But only if you give me a mermaid tail. And a seashell bra.”

“Sold,” Jon agreed. He wondered if Spencer would strangle him or not for singing _Under the Sea._


	23. Jon/Brendon "Caves"

“It scared me when I first realized,” Brendon admitted, poking at the blankets pooled around their bare feet with his toe. “Because, you know. AIDS.”

“You don’t have to be gay to get AIDS,” Jon pointed out. He felt surprisingly mellow, considering the conversation. It probably had something to do with being post-coital, Brendon’s limbs threaded through his and radiating lazy heat. He rubbed his thigh idly against Brendon’s, to see if Brendon was ready for round two yet. It didn’t feel like it, but that was fine, because he wasn’t quite there yet either. They had time.

“I know,” Brendon continued, twisting a little until his nose was almost brushing Jon’s, eyes wide and serious and nearly crossed. “It’s just, you know. It’s what everyone thinks.”

“You’ve been careful, though,” Jon said, confident in his answer. Brendon had been around a lot, at least with girls, but he’d always been careful. He’d been careful tonight, and Jon was the first one to see him like this, the first man. The first to touch him.

“I’ve always just wondered, though,” Brendon admitted, voice dropped to almost a whisper. “What would happen. If my parents would come, or you guys. If I went into the hospital.”

This wasn’t the most cheerful after-sex conversation Jon had ever had, but he could see it was important to Brendon, in the way his face was still and his body held tense even where it was tangled up with Jon’s. Jon kissed his nose and said, “I would come.”

Brendon relaxed a little bit, turning his cheek into the pillow and hiding his eyes. Jon stroked his back and heard the muffled reply when Brendon said, “I know.”

“Ryan would too,” Jon said, kissing Brendon’s shoulder because it was within easy reach. “And Spencer.” He couldn’t speak for Brendon’s family, but he could speak for them. He was fierce about being able to speak for them. “It won’t happen, though.”

Brendon turned back to look at him, smiling easily. “I know,” he said, and tilted his head for a kiss Jon was only too happy to give him. They moved together naturally, Jon rolling on top of Brendon, their legs sliding together and dragging their hips back into the first stirring hint of contact. Brendon squeezed Jon’s arm when they finally broke apart, winding their limbs closer together, and whispered, “But thanks for telling me.”


	24. Spencer/Brendon celebrating the new year

“I meant it,” Spencer murmured, dipping his tongue into Brendon’s navel again to taste the sweat on his skin, “when I said we weren’t leaving this bed until next year.”

Brendon twisted, wrists tugging against the silk scarf knotting him securely to the bedposts. “I guess you weren’t - _ah_ \- kidding about what you said about me not coming until the new year either, then.”

“Nope,” Spencer answered, digging his teeth into the tight muscles of Brendon’s stomach, dragging them across skin until Brendon arched to follow him. “You’ve still got…” He checked the clock, glowing red numbers positioned just out of Brendon’s line of sight. “Four hours and sixteen minutes left.”

Brendon groaned, but it turned into a gasp when Spencer bit down again, and then a whimper when Spencer touched just the tip of his tongue to Brendon’s cock. “Please,” he whispered, the sound half a breath away from becoming a whimper. “Spencer. Fuck me.”

Spencer let himself go down for a few seconds, sucking on the head of Brendon’s cock until his saliva had slid down far enough to lubricate the shaft before pulling back off. He smacked his lips together and pointed out, “I’m not fucking you for four hours straight. Even I have limits.”

Brendon’s hips pushed off the bed, desperately trying to regain the heat of Spencer’s mouth without pushing him too far. “I don’t have to come,” he gasped, every line tense and urgent. “I can wait. You can just fuck me, now, please, Spencer.”

Spencer considered, letting his fingers trail down between Brendon’s spread legs. He felt Brendon strain to open them wider, even though his ankles were tied as well, and pushed two fingers into the wet heat of Brendon already opened and ready for him, slick with lube from the last time Spencer had fucked him with fingers and tongue.

“Please,” Brendon begged.

“One more for the old year?” Spencer asked, raising himself up over Brendon, the head of his cock nudging and digging at Brendon’s balls. Brendon’s cock twitched, and Spencer slapped it lightly, almost without thinking, before reaching to lift Brendon’s balls out of the way so Spencer could push further between his thighs.

“ _Spencer,_ ” Brendon groaned as he paused, rocking his hips no more than an inch forward, testing to see how fast he could make Brendon cave.

It didn’t take long. Brendon arched hard, thighs straining, and worked himself in agonizing increments back onto Spencer’s cock until he was stuffed and swollen with it, breathing hard and soaked in fresh sweat, his chest flushed and heaving.

Spencer wasn’t doing too well by that point either, honestly. He pulled back and thrust his hips forward, sliding all the way into the welcoming heat of Brendon’s body so smoothly that Brendon’s voice broke on a sob. Then he glanced one more time at the clock, bit Brendon’s earlobe and whispered, “Well, this _is_ supposed to be a party.”


	25. Gabe/William, jealousy

He had a cold. He was on tour – his _own_ tour – and he needed to rest his voice, and the fact that Gabe had apparently easily replaced him with some wet-eyed kid from an opening band didn’t bother him at all. It didn’t.

Gabe found him hours later, after William had gone from pretending not to be hiding from Gabe to honestly not remembering that he was, and elbowed his way into William’s hiding place.

“I thought you might be mad,” he admitted, chuckling low into the dark, close space of William’s bunk.

“I’m not mad,” William said immediately. “I’m just resting.”

“You hate this bunk,” Gabe said, his hands insidiously finding their way under William’s hoodie, inside the secret creases of fabric and metal to rest on bare skin. “You’re only ever in here if you’re sleeping, and you’re not sleeping.”

“Maybe I was going to,” William muttered rebelliously, but it wasn’t a winning argument.

“On your giant belt buckle,” Gabe agreed placidly, undoing the clasp of said belt and tugging it free of William’s jeans so that he could pull William closer against him without cold metal edges digging into his skin. William didn’t make it easy for him, leaving his elbows right where they were when they ended up banging between Gabe’s ribs.

“I’m not jealous or anything,” William informed him, tilting his head back to get the hair out of his eyes. “I’m not that insecure.”

Gabe just chuckled again. “You’re the most insecure person I know,” he said. His fingers took the sting out of the words, rubbing gentle circles against William’s skin. “I’m not saying that’s a bad thing.”

“Floozy,” William muttered, because he was still angry, a little, magic fingers or no. Not even angry, really, more hurt. He didn’t like the idea of being easily replaceable. He never had.

“Hey, it’s not like I’m sleeping with him or anything,” Gabe said, in what was obviously meant to be a reassuring way.

“I wasn’t thinking that,” William said, narrowing his eyes. Gabe raised his eyebrows - _But?_ \- and William exhaled in annoyance. “Well, _now_ I am.”

Gabe laughed, dragging William even closer against him, elbows and all. “When would I find the time?” he asked philosophically. “Or the energy?”

“When we’re _not_ doing it in my bunk,” William answered, because he was strict about that rule, no sex where his band and everyone else on the planet could hear, and Gabe was getting handsy.

Gabe pulled William on top of him and pushed the hair out of his eyes. “I’ll make it up to you,” he crooned. “When we’re not on a bus.”

“I told you I wasn’t jealous,” William insisted, only making a halfhearted attempt at wriggling away. He’d knocked his knee into the wall last time; he was more careful now.

“I’m not saying you were,” Gabe returned, all wide eyes and fake innocence, even though they both knew that was exactly what he was saying.

“Whatever,” William grumbled, letting himself settle on Gabe’s chest to feel the steady beat of his heart. It wasn’t capitulation, not exactly. Gabe knew better than to think it was. He frowned suddenly, turning his chin up to look at Gabe, who was smiling lazily down at him. “Don’t you have to go?”

Gabe toyed with a strand of his hair, his other hand still warm and flat against the small of William’s back. “A few more minutes,” he said, tucking the loose strand behind William’s ear. “I made a deal.”

“It doesn’t involve any more whipped cream porn, does it?” William asked.

Gabe grinned, but didn’t deny it. His tour mates had some seriously messed-up kinks. “It would have been worth it if it did,” he said instead. He tucked a finger under William’s chin and said seriously, his eyes giving the lie to his casual smile, “You and me. We’re good?”

“Yeah,” William said, resting one hand over Gabe’s heartbeat. “We’re good.”


	26. Brendon/Spencer in the snow

“Snow angels?” Spencer asked skeptically, shifting his weight from one side to the other.

Brendon just nodded back at him, earnest and wide-eyed, buried in the folds of a scarf longer than he was tall. “Snow angels, Spence. And snow men. We could make a whole snow band, have them rock out with sticks.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow, flicking his gaze over Brendon’s shoulder to the weather outside. “There’s like, an inch of snow on the ground.”

“There’s a lot of ground, though,” Brendon said, smiling hopefully. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

“If we run out of snow, we get to go sledding,” Spencer bargained. “Hang on, let me get my hat.”

Jon watched him pass without comment, but Ryan caught him on his way back out of the bedroom, leaning against the door frame with a mug of tea in his hands. He plucked at Spencer’s sleeve as he shrugged into his coat, lips pursed like a disapproving maiden aunt. “You know he’s just trying to get you to go out so that he can rub you down and make sure you’re wrapped up and warm afterwards, and then have an excuse to cling to you all night like a human limpet.”

Spencer grinned, clapping Ryan gently on the shoulder. “Why do you think I’m going along with it?”


	27. William/Jon, angst

“So this is it?” William snapped, lashing out because if he did that, nothing else would show. “We fight, he calls, you go running?”

“You kicked him out of the band,” Jon said, voice hard. There was no disbelief in it, though. Jon had known this was coming. Even if he hadn’t, he must have understood why.

“He stopped _being_ in the fucking band,” William said, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. Fucking Tom. Fucking, _fucking_ Jon Walker.

“You’re the one who said ‘you’re out,’” Jon snapped. “There’s a big difference between having a few differences of opinion and throwing someone else out on their ass.”

“It wasn’t just my decision,” William argued, pretending the fresh stirring of emotion in his stomach was anger and not panic. “We all agreed.”

“Like that makes it any better,” Jon said, cold, and William swallowed hard to keep himself together. He recognized the ache in Jon’s eyes, he could feel it under his skin, but that didn’t help. It didn’t bring them any closer together.

“So you’re leaving?” William asked, and hated himself for the edge of fear in his voice. He sharpened it, made it sound scornful. Better to hurt than to be hurt, although he couldn’t avoid that last.

“He’s my best friend,” Jon said, and now he sounded tired more than anything, worn out from the fight that always came back to the same place it started, dragging them along in circles.

“And what am I?” William challenged, ignoring the sharp pain in his chest that felt like shattered glass. “What am I?”

“You were a fuck,” Jon said, flat and empty, and then there was nothing more to say.


	28. Ryan/Jon, thunderstorms

Ryan’s never been afraid of thunderstorms. Not even when they were kids, hiding out in Spencer’s room under a fort made of blankets and imagination, when Mrs. Smith would come in to check on them late at night if she saw the lightning.

He likes the power of them, though, the rush. He thinks Jon might see them the same way, based on the strength of his hands around Ryan’s arms when the first thunderclap sounds; the way his eyes snap to Ryan’s, startled but not afraid.

Ryan rubs against Jon until he relaxes again, pulls Ryan closer. They’re both naked under the blankets, sweat-sticky and gritty-eyed from staying up so late. Jon prefers being on the bottom, but right now he seems content with what Ryan wants; just the two of them moving together, their cocks sliding and nudging against each other.

Ryan reaches down and wraps his hand around both of them, jerking slowly. Jon’s head drops back and his breath hisses out between his teeth, but then he cranes his neck to look down, watching Ryan’s hand move over their cocks, and his eyes darken, his cock jerking in Ryan’s grip. Ryan knows what he’s thinking, and shudders with pleasure just seeing it happen, seeing Jon aroused because of him.

Ryan thinks Brendon and Spencer must be laughing at them, the idea of them – Ryan himself did, at least, when this was first beginning. Jon had been wooed so instantaneously and enthusiastically by Brendon when they’d first met him, and then he and Spencer had formed their buddy-buddy soul bond, and Ryan…hadn’t been expecting this.

Jon gets him, though. They understand each other in a way that no one else does, and that makes all the difference. He never thought he’d be the one to take this step with Jon, but now that they’re here, he’s not surprised. They speak each other’s language.

“Fuck me like the thunder,” Ryan says, and Jon does.


	29. Jon/Spencer, being interrupted by Jon's cats

“Jon, god, you… _ow,_ ” Spencer yelped, followed by, “Jesus Christ, Jon, your cats are _freaks._ ”

“What?” Jon said vaguely, still rocking his hips in the rhythm formerly set by Spencer’s cock. He stopped after a few more seconds, looking around in the darkness. “Did Clover get you?”

“If Clover is short for claws-like-needles, then yes,” Spencer said, hissing. He arched his back, rubbing at something on the back of his thigh, incidentally pushing his cock deeper inside Jon. Jon made a low gurgling noise and tried to distract Spencer into picking up the pace again.

“They just like to play,” Jon soothed, running his hands over Spencer’s chest. Spencer frowned into the quiet room, evidently hoping to wait Clover out, but Jon knew his cats. They were under the bed, biding their time until the creaking started again.

“Yes, well, _I’m_ playing with you right now,” Spencer said, annoyed, which shouldn’t have been as hot as it was, oh god. Jon’s dick gave an optimistic twitch.

Somewhere in the darkness, there was a soft scritch. Spencer stopped moving again, and Jon almost brained himself with a pillow muffling his groan. “Just fuck me,” he said from under the pillow. He tossed it to the side and continued, “They’ll leave you alone.”

“You’re not the one being used as a scratching post,” Spencer said, but his hips were moving again, glorious friction, and Jon was too blissed-out to care. “She has _claws,_ Jon.”

“I know,” Jon mumbled happily. “I trim them. Oh god, fuck, yes, there.”

He was about to prove Brendon’s theory about him being a screamer correct, except that Spencer jerked into him _hard_ and yelled, “Fuck! Jon, your fucking insane _cats!_ ”

“Playing,” Jon tried again weakly, but he really did know his cats better than that. This was a great game for them, and they were going to keep playing it for as long as possible, or until they got bored and wandered off to do something else. Jon couldn’t think of much that was more interesting than Spencer’s bare ass.

“I think I’m bleeding,” Spencer said dourly, in a tone that did not bode well for Clover’s continued well-being. Jon made an involuntary soothing noise that was only half meant for Spencer, and half for his poor hunted pets.

“Maybe we could roll over,” Jon suggested, heels nudging at Spencer’s calves. “They probably won’t go after me.”

“Oh, I see,” Spencer murmured, suddenly very close in the dark, his nose rubbing against Jon’s cheek. “This was all a household-wide ploy to get you on top.”

“Nnrgh,” Jon said, which was the best he could do with Spencer rocking his hips slowly, fucking Jon in sweet, sweet circles that sent fizzling sparks right to his brain. He finally managed to gasp out, “I was thinking I’d ride you, actually.”

There was a brief pause in Spencer’s rhythm, during which Jon absolutely did not groan like a plaintive, desperate, begging _thing_ , and then Spencer lifted Jon’s hips practically off the bed, sinking in deep, and Jon’s eyes rolled back in his head.

“Fuck,” Spencer said fervently. “Fuck, Jon, that is so fucking hot, I… _ow, motherfucker!_ ”


	30. Bob/Spencer with tinsel

“This Christmas stuff is awesome,” Bob says, hanging another decoration from Spencer’s box of ornaments on their tree. “Your mom got you all this?”

Spencer’s slightly disheveled, brushing bits of corn husk off his sweater from what used to be a corn-doll angel-type thing. Bob’s not exactly sure, but then he only saw it in the unfortunate aftermath. “Not all of it,” he admits, picking out a Snoopy in a Santa hat. “Some of it I picked up along the way, or got from other people. This one’s from Ryan.”

He passes Bob a blown-glass ornament, twisted and bubbled with colors swirled through the center. Bob turns it over in his hands, says, “Huh,” and takes a picture.

“What are you doing?” Spencer asks, when Bob finishes typing and hits ‘send.’

“Twittering,” Bob answers. “It’s what all the kids do these days. Hey, I like that leaf-thing.”

Spencer gives it to him to hang, and Bob gets another dozen ornaments up on the tree, only pausing three more times to twitter. The third time isn’t even his fault, it’s Frankie asking about a Christmas Cockroach, and Bob can’t not respond to that. Inner city kids need the holidays, too.

 _fck u,_ Frank twitters back. _im from jersey._

Bob twits _same difference xmas croach for u 2?_ and only then notices Spencer watching him, hands twitching like they really want to land on his hips, but he knows how endlessly Bob will mock him if they do that.

“What?” Bob asks. “I’m paying attention.”

“I thought you wanted to do this together,” Spencer says. Bob can never tell Spencer how much he sounds like Bob’s last girlfriend.

He can tell Mikey, though. “I do,” he says earnestly, and then sends, _can’t live with em, can’t live without em_ over twitter, because he has to be careful with personal shit, but that sounds innocuous enough.

Gerard responds with _it’s not easy being green_ , which is so Gerard that Bob laughs out loud and forgets that he was trying to keep the texting on the dl.

“Really,” he says quickly, before Spencer can say anything that reminds Bob too much of his ex. “This is great, I like it. Pass me that holly.”

He ends up putting the holly on top of a wooden reindeer, and then taking a picture of it to twitter to Ray, who likes crazy animal stuff. Especially cats. Bob should see if he can get the cats into the holly.

 _cool dude,_ Ray sends back. _like the berries._

The next time he turns around, Spencer is naked. Bob didn’t see that one coming, wow. He also has his hands on his hips, and a piece of tinsel draped over his cock.

“Do I have your attention now?” Spencer asks, and god, Spencer is fucking hot when he gets bitchy.

Bob takes a few steps forward, phone forgotten in his hand, and Spencer says, “So help me, Bob, if you take a picture I will end you.”

Bob raises his hands in a display of surrender, surreptitiously twits _green has benefits_ and sets his phone down on the shelf. Then he drops to his knees, an action which is met with a familiar look of Spencer-approval.

“Grab the mistletoe,” Bob says, reeling Spencer in by his lovely naked hips. “I’m feeling festive.”


	31. Leaving Las Vegas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Panic! gen

“We’re not stopping,” Ryan says stubbornly.

“Come on, Ross, _Ross,_ we still have to eat. It’s after noon, I’m starving.” Brendon watches the sign for a Del Taco go past and wonders if plastering his nose to the window will have any effect. Probably not; Ryan’s eyes are glued to the road.

“We have a long way to go,” Ryan argues. “It will take longer if we stop.”

“It will take _forever_ the way you drive,” Brendon mutters, then changes tack and tries, “We have to stop anyway, it’s just a question of when. And now is perfect.”

Ryan bats his hand away when he tries to change the iPod playlist to something less like what his parents would approve of and more rock-stars-on-a-roadtrip. “Don’t touch that,” Ryan warns. “This is a perfect playlist.”

“This is my grandfather’s playlist,” Brendon disagrees. “We are not listening to The Carpenters for however many hours it takes to get there.”

“Twelve,” Ryan says, checking his GPS carefully. “Thirteen if we _stop._ ”

“We’re stopping,” Brendon insists. “I’m tired of being in the car, and I’m starving. You wouldn’t want me to perish on the way.”

“You’re not going to perish,” Ryan tells him. “We have snack food.”

“I want real food,” Brendon says, followed by, “That’s our exit.”

“That’s not our exit,” Ryan argues. “Our exit is up there.”

“I’m telling you,” Brendon says. “That’s the ramp, do you see it?”

“There’s no sign,” Ryan counters, still fixedly watching the road. “And the GPS says…”

The Australian-accented female voice of their GPS unit, nicknamed Darla by Jon the last time he visited, interrupts their arguments with, “Recalculating…route.”

“You missed it,” Brendon says, vindicated. “Now we might as well stop for lunch.”

“We’re never going to get there,” Ryan grumbles as Brendon pulls out his phone. “There’s a reason we brought snacks.”

“There are no Doritos,” Brendon says. Everyone knows you can’t make a meal out of snack food without at least one variety of Doritos.

“Why are there no Doritos?” Ryan asks. “Did you forget? Is that an actual bag of Funyuns?”

“There are onions, it counts as both a starch and a vegetable,” Brendon informs him in a wounded tone.

“Are you two arguing over snack foods?” Spencer asks through Brendon’s phone.

“Ross is wrong about everything,” Brendon says, just so they’re all clear on that. “Want to meet us for lunch?”

“Sure,” Spencer says, and then, “Wait, where are you?”

“We haven’t passed the city limits,” Brendon tells him sadly, just as they pass the sign and Ryan says, “We have too.”

“Jesus,” Spencer laughs. “Lunch, yeah. Port of Subs?”

“We’re on our way,” Brendon says cheerfully. “Port, Ross. Turn left.”

“It’s right,” Ryan says, frowning. “We’re past the intersection now, we have to go around.”

“There’s a shortcut, trust me,” Brendon says reassuringly. “Go left.”

“It’s a one-way street,” Ryan snipes as they reach the light.

“The _next_ left,” Brendon says patiently. Really, he’s very patient.

“Fine,” Ryan says. “But after we get lunch, we’ll need to make up the time.”

“Oh, we will,” Brendon replies. “Because I’ll be driving.”

“Recalculating…route,” Darla says.

Ryan just sighs.


	32. Dirty Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon/Brendon

They’re barely offstage when Brendon shakes his head and sends sweat flying everywhere, but mostly into the tight cluster of his band mates. “Hey,” Ryan objects, but whatever, they’re his band, they should know better than to stand close to him after a show by now.

“I’m reclaiming my title as dirtiest band member,” he announces, draping himself over Spencer’s equally-drenched back. “Besides, you love it.”

“I’m hotboxing you in your bunk tonight,” Spencer warns. “I’m eating lots of beans for dinner. We’re having burritos.”

Brendon almost shudders at the thought, but he’s better than that. “I’ll teabag you in your sleep,” he threatens, because Ryan is not the only one who can teabag around here, oh no.

“You’re not starting this again,” Ryan says firmly, but he has no say in the matter, so whatever. Brendon just has to make sure to get his socks this time; they’re the only thing smellier than Spencer’s headband and Jon’s jockstrap.

“Remember when we teamed up against them?” Spencer says fondly, and Jon raises an eyebrow as if daring Spencer to bring him into this.

“We’ve failed,” Brendon says solemnly and a bit sadly from his place on Spencer’s back, as Spencer drops one hand back to help him up onto a better perch. “Jon is still the smelliest.”

“That’s because Jon forgets to shower,” Ryan says. “It’s not intentional.”

“You didn’t read that message board,” Brendon tells him. “There are girls _dying_ to get their hands on my hot, sweaty body. Filth is a big turn-on.”

“Dripping sweat and smelling like piss are two different things,” Ryan points out wryly.

“That was not my fault,” Brendon says savagely, kicking Spencer in the sides for emphasis. “Spencer pissed in my bed.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that was Hobo,” Ryan says, but it was during Brendon and Spencer’s War of Filth and Famine, so Brendon knows better.

“Who put her in my bed instead of taking her out when she needed to go?” Brendon challenges.

Ryan’s eyes flit sideways, then back. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that was Spencer.”

“Traitor,” Spencer says mildly, and dumps Brendon onto the floor.

“Next time I’m teaming with Jon,” Brendon says, recovering gracefully from his crash-land on the carpet. “Filthiest and past-filthiest, we’ll be unbeatable.”

“Hey,” Jon says mildly. “I’m not all that filthy, you all are just clean freaks.”

“You’re rubbing off a little on Spencer,” Brendon says slyly, sniffing close to an armpit for good measure. “He’s not the same squeaky-clean boy he once was.”

“Don’t make me jerk off onto your favorite jeans,” Spencer warns darkly. The ‘again’ goes unspoken, because Brendon is still bitter about the last pair.

“I will end you,” Brendon announces. “With feces.”

“I’m going to shower,” Ryan says. “I feel unclean just taking part in this conversation.”

“Second,” Spencer says immediately, like a reflex, and heads off after Ryan to find towels.

Brendon flops onto the couch, promptly sticking to it everywhere his skin touches, and looks up speculatively at Jon. Jon says solemnly, “I didn’t mean to take your title.”

“It’s okay,” Brendon allows. “The girls still think I’m sweaty and gross and sexy, so.”

“The girls, huh?” Jon replies, smirking his patented Jon smirk. Brendon stretches out automatically, spreading his legs a little.

“Hey,” Brendon says, grinning wickedly and very suggestively. “Want to come be dirty with me?”

Jon considers him, considers the closed door to the dressing room, and walks over to stand between his legs. “I think that’s a whole different contest,” he points out, but he very noticeably isn’t saying no. Brendon is paying attention.

“Come on,” he coaxes. “I’ll let you get me all sweaty and filthy.”

Jon laughs as Brendon peels off his soaked shirt. “I think you already are.”

Brendon smirks back at him, his own patented Brendon smirk, and says, “There’s always room for improvement.”


	33. Summer Daze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> William/Gabe

It’s only a few more weeks. Barely any time at all. Between the PR work and Warped, William really shouldn’t have any time to worry about the album dropping anyway.

Somehow he always finds time.

“Bill,” Gabe’s voice says from somewhere nearby. Probably the doorway, since Gabe hadn’t been on their bus the last time William checked (and he does check; they get a lot of stowaways) and William himself is currently in a chair with his face planted on the makeshift kitchen table that no one ever uses for anything but Jenga.

“Billy,” Gabe tries again. “What’s up? You look a little T-R-O double-B-L-E-D.”

William raises his head from the tabletop and smiles faintly. “I love it when you try to spell.”

“Shut up, that one was right on. Hey, you’re not thinking about the album, are you? That shit’s gonna be gold.”

“Yeah,” William says distantly. He catches himself trying to twirl his hair around his finger and frowns. It still hasn’t grown out enough.

Part of him wants to tell Gabe about how he’s worried that this album won’t get them anywhere either, that they’ll still be playing clubs with no radio airtime and will be for the rest of their lives, headlining tours with bands that take off like they have a launch pad. It keeps happening, somehow, history repeating. And he’s put so much of himself out there on this album. He doesn’t know that he can bear it if no one listens.

Part of him wants to say all of that, but the rest of him quashes it because Gabe already knows. Gabe has been through the same thing, many times, and he’s been with them every step of the way for this one, too. If this album is their baby, Gabe is like the assistant midwife. Or something. William’s beat, he’s out of metaphors that make any sense.

“Let’s go,” Gabe orders. “You know what you need? A fuck.”

William can’t help smiling then, as Gabe hauls him out of his chair and down the steps. He doesn’t bother to ask where they’re going. Gabe always has a place.

“Not in the ass,” he warns.

Gabe grins back at him, all white teeth and tan skin. “Not in the ass,” he agrees.

They’d done it that way exactly once, both of them tripping-over-shit drunk and enthusiastic and young enough that William thinks he probably still had stars in his eyes. They’d been careful, more or less, but it had hurt and he hadn’t enjoyed it and while he’s game for anything once, twice is just stupidity. They’d tried it the other way around a few years later, but William had only gotten as far as two fingers before Gabe grimaced and said, “Yeah, no, not happening,” and they’d gone for blowjobs instead.

Giving a blowjob really isn’t all that great either, but the payoff is great. It’s totally worth the taste.

Gabe leads them unerringly into a closed-off corner of the field, ducking beneath tape and warning signs to open up the door to a trailer full of boxes. William raises his eyebrows, but comes without complaint when Gabe reaches back to grab his hand and pull him in.

“Cozy,” he says. It’s warm inside, the heat thick and dusty, and the air is close. There’s not much room between the stacks of boxes; he can feel Gabe’s legs pressed against his and their chests brushing with every inhale.

“Private,” Gabe counters, and even though William can’t see the grin anymore, he can hear it. “And full of medical supplies.”

“We’re in the Red Cross trailer?” William asks, with a touch of incredulousness. His lips twitch when Gabe’s fingers insinuate themselves into his belt loops to drag him closer. “I guess we don’t have any excuse for not using protection.”

“You don’t need protection,” Gabe leers, and their hips bump together, gently. “You’re with me.”

William laughs, and it echoes oddly in the space. One of Gabe’s hands slides into his back pocket and the other curls around his neck, directing him into a kiss. “Wow,” he murmurs between the first fleeting brushes of their mouths. “I’m filled with confidence.”

“Better than a groupie,” Gabe agrees, and he leans in, legs bracketing William’s so that when he rocks forward, the first tingling sparks of interest start trailing up William’s spine.

William tilts his head back when Gabe starts mouthing his jaw, and some Pavlovian response has him spreading his legs as well, arching forward. “You _are_ a groupie,” he argues.

Gabe raises his head from William’s neck, breath warm and faintly minty on William’s face. “Only for you,” he says, holding his palm flat against William’s mouth for him to lick, and then his hand slides into William’s jeans and William starts moaning.

He returns the favor after the first few seconds of short-circuited sensation, and then they’re both stuck together and sweaty in the clothes they’ll probably both still wear onstage later, hands moving fast and strong, panting into each other’s mouths.

The sweat means it gets slick fast, and then even slicker, and William goes from wishing he’d licked Gabe’s hand first to wishing they had less clothes on, because with as slippery as they are this would be _fantastic_ naked. He comes thinking about the first time he took his clothes off with someone else, and shudders through orgasm remembering the first taste of someone else’s sweat as Gabe puts his own hand over William’s to keep him on track and comes a minute or two later, biting off profanity between his teeth.

William’s thinking about the first time he fell in love then, as they breathe hard against each other’s shoulders, and the first time he realized it, and the first time he wrote a song about it. Which brings him back to the album, and how everyone is going to hear those songs and know things about him, or think they know things about him, and how he’s just putting himself out there for everyone to hear. To judge.

“Stop it,” Gabe murmurs next to his ear. The hairs curling over his earlobe stir, tickling his neck. “We did this so you would _stop_ thinking.”

“Sorry,” William says, but he’s not, really. He can’t stop.

Gabe gets it, though. Gabe always gets it. And the few times he doesn’t, he doesn’t bother to pretend he does. It’s one of the things William most likes about him. Right now, though, this, he gets.

“Come over after your set,” he says. “We’ll smoke.”

“Yeah, maybe,” William agrees. He thinks he maybe promised Andrew something, but he can’t remember now. Warped is a hazy mess of days after a while, and everything gets blurred.

“Bring Andrew,” Gabe says, like he’s reading William’s mind. “But if you do, we can’t sneak out and get off on your bus while everyone else is on ours.”

“I like your cunning mind,” William tells him. He’s starting to feel itchy and too-hot in the small space, so he pulls away. Gabe squeezes his arm when he lets go.

“That’s why you keep me around,” Gabe says. “To be the brains of the operation.”

“Yeah,” William says, and he doesn’t bother rolling his eyes because a) it’s dark, and b) it’s implied.

“Bill,” Gabe says, and his hand skims over William’s shirt, settling lightly on the slice of skin exposed between hem and waistband. “It fucking rocks.”

William finds Gabe’s other hand and squeezes, brief and sticky. “I know.” The tension in his shoulders unknots a little, post-orgasmic lassitude fighting and winning the battle with his nerves. Gabe slaps him on the back approvingly when William rolls out his neck and lets himself relax a little.

“Tonight?” Gabe asks, swinging the trailer door open.

William thinks it over, smiles and says, “Yeah.”


	34. Sleepless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spencer/Brendon

They’re in Köln when Brendon finally recognizes the feeling. It’s been an itch under his skin for the past two days, leaving him caffeine-restless and unsettled. He gets loud, until Ryan’s words turn sharp at the edges, and then he gets quiet. It’s still not enough, though.

The bus is warm, still and quiet with everyone asleep in the bunks, stifling. Brendon lies awake for an hour, gets up to play a video game in the hopes that it will turn his brain off, and finally goes back to bed when that doesn’t work and he starts feeling like a twitchy zombie.

After another half an hour, he admits defeat and gets up again. Having a plan usually helps, soothes the tremors under his skin, but he already knows that it won’t be enough tonight. Even just thinking about it sets him itching again, impatient to be in motion.

He sneaks past the rows of silent sleepers, past Jon’s soft sleep-wheeze and the rustle of Spencer turning over behind a curtain. It’s too hot to be sleeping with the curtains closed, in Brendon’s opinion, too claustrophobically oppressive, but then no one else is up at four-thirty in the morning unable to sleep. Everyone else is lost to dreams.

His own dreams should have given it away long before this, he thinks. He dreamt about being in a bar, and he was wearing a coat, trench-belted and heavy on his shoulders. A man asked him what he was wearing beneath it, and he was cock-sure and coy in the dream, enough to ask the man how badly he wanted to know.

He doesn’t remember anything more of that one, but there had been another, a night later, where he’d ended up lying on the table of some Asian-style restaurant, low to the floor, with voices murmuring over his head; incomprehensible, like the buzzing of bees. He’d taken a breath, and someone had lifted a piece of sushi – laid out over his ribs, curving in a gentle line – with their chopsticks, dipped it into the wasabi pooled in his navel.

He tried not to move, not to breathe, and then there was air gusting warm and feathery over his ribs, raising the fine hairs on his arms, and the shocking cold of sake spilling over his skin, running outward from his sternum to curl over his sides, threatening to drip onto the floor. It didn’t make it all the way; there was a tongue, warm and wet, tracing the path of the liquid.

He’d woken up hard from that one, panting, with sweat clammy on his skin, making his bunk smell sharp and acrid. It had taken him less than two minutes to jerk off, and less than five to roll over, wiping the mess onto whatever came to hand, and fall back asleep.

He should have known then. Instead he wrote it off as a product of his own stir-craziness, the insanity of touring, and let the buzz in his bones grow a little stronger every day. Now it’s too much for him to ignore, and something needs to be done.

He closes the door to the back lounge to keep most of the light from spilling out, then feels his way to the bathroom and turns on the overhead light. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust, dark spots blinking through his vision, and then he sees his reflection, pillow-creased and squinting in the mirror.

He showers first. It’s not like he needs it, he showered after the show, but it’s part of the ritual and helps settle him. Shaving is next, and he borrows Spencer’s razor instead of using his own electric, lathering up until his face is thick with cream. Spencer won’t mind too much, as long as Brendon buys him new blades. He shaves slowly, methodically; every stroke leaves him cleaner, calmer. He rinses away the rest of the cream and splashes water around the edge of the sink, washing the short bristling hairs down the drain.

He splashes more water on his face, and pats it dry before adding the cool bite of Ryan’s aftershave, the only bottle sitting unprotected outside of their hanging toiletry kits. Jon has something spicier, but this will do – it’s almost subtle, and unfamiliar enough on his skin to make him aware of it.

He gets dressed in the dark, picking out clothes by feel and dim suggestion of colour. The shirt he chooses is a few years old, and tight enough to pull across his chest when he buttons it. It might not even be his.

Putting on eyeliner doesn’t require much effort by this point, a habit formed by months backstage playing sold-out auditoriums. He’s still careful, still traces the lines straight and dark with fixed attention to detail. He gels his hair into spikes, carefully artless, and is on his way towards the door when someone looms up out of the darkness and blocks the way.

It takes him a second to recover from the heart attack, but when he does, the flurry in his chest only rushing double-time instead of triple, he recognizes the hunched shoulders, the silhouette.

There’s a frowning silence, and then Spencer asks – quietly, so as not to wake the others, but not in a whisper – “Where are you going?”

Brendon’s heart speeds up a little again, automatically. “Out,” he whispers. He’s not as brave as Spencer, his voice not as rumblingly low.

Spencer shifts his weight, and Brendon recognizes that, too. It’s his decision-making silence. Spencer takes a step forward then, and Brendon takes a step away automatically, without even considering. He can tell Spencer’s surprised, but makes no other move to intercept him. Brendon doesn’t have any intention of being deterred, but Spencer just steps away and says, “Make sure you tell Zack.”

Brendon isn’t stupid. He writes out a note – messy but legible, he thinks, although it’s hard to tell in the dark – detailing roughly where he plans to go, how long he thinks he’ll be, affirming that he has his phone and keys in case of an emergency. He’s not foolish enough to wake Zack; the man would be alert in a heartbeat, but Brendon doesn’t want to explain, he just wants to _go_. He leaves the note next to Zack’s nose, under his pillow, and slips out before anyone else can wake. Zack is a notoriously light sleeper.

He hears Spencer shuffling back to the bunks as he goes, right before the door shuts with a quiet click.

The club takes him a while to find. It’s not that he’s picky, really, or looking for anything in particular – well, he is, but it’s not anything a specific club can be sure to provide – more that he’s unfamiliar with the city. If they were in Berlin…well, Brendon knows a lot of places to go in Berlin. But he’s not near any of them, so he puts that out of his mind.

The cabbie has a few suggestions, and Brendon picks one mostly at random, leaning back against the headrest while they drive. The city is lit up even at night, and brightly-lit signs imprint themselves in flashes of colour across the backs of Brendon’s eyelids.

They pull up to a club that looks like it could be anywhere, in any city, and Brendon undoes the top button of his shirt, tips the cabbie and heads in. It’s even brighter in the club, although that comes and goes in pulses, the heavy dance beat pounding in counterpoint to strobe lights and glow sticks. There are neon signs decorating the walls, abstract bars of garish colour; Brendon follows them around the room until he reaches the bar.

He’s restless, but he’s not stupid; he gets one drink, enough to loosen him up, and then heads out onto the dance floor. He’s not even buzzed, but he doesn’t need to be – the thrum of the bass through the speakers is doing enough all on its own.

He dances with five, six, ten people, and leaves them all. He’s searching, sort of, but when he finds what he’s looking for – and he knows when she smiles at him, sees the teeth sharp beneath her lipstick – he keeps his distance. She lets him, content to dance and wind him in circles, working him up without ever getting close enough to make him shy away. He thinks about going home with her – she would let him – but the others will be waking up soon, and Brendon needs to get back to the bus. If he’s lucky, he can slip the note out from under Zack’s pillow before he wakes up.

She cocks her head when he pulls away, a question. He shakes his head, smiling, and lets his body slow down, dropping away from the rhythm until he’s not a part of the dance still throbbing around them. When she asks, in carefully-articulated English – he wonders how she knew – he shakes his head again and thanks her for the dance. He means it.

When he gets back, there’s just enough time to reclaim his note to Zack and duck into the shower before the alarm goes off and everyone else rouses. Spencer is asleep again; Brendon hears the heavy rhythm of his breathing when he passes the closed curtain.

He’ll be a zombie for the rest of the day, but it was worth it. He can already feel the tension in him dissipating, bleeding away into exhaustion in the aftermath of the club. He’s groggy when he stumbles out of the shower, the last of the adrenaline faded, and Spencer’s the one who has to take a step to the side to keep them from colliding.

“Hey,” Spencer says, a raised eyebrow of a question that Brendon answers with the quick flash of a smile: “Hey.”

He kicks the clothes he wore to the club into a corner, rolled up into a ball of smoke and sweat – he’d had a cigarette on the drive back, the cabbie hadn’t minded and welcomed the tip – and gets dressed in worn jeans, a faded shirt. He hides behind a pair of vampire shades when they leave the bus, and everyone else is still half-asleep, so thankfully no one tries to nudge him into conversation. Ten minutes later he has a Starbucks cup attached to his hand, stealing sips of an iced latte slowly through a green straw. He draws it out, focused while the others order and shuffle around each other in the confined space.

Spencer gets the door on the way out, ushering Brendon through. He feels Spencer’s hand coming before it touches him, recognizes the ghost of it in the small of his back and sidesteps, evading. He smiles quickly to show Spencer it’s nothing personal, and moves down the sidewalk at a brisk pace, letting the slightly-chilled morning air finish waking him back up.

They all give him space once they get to the radio station – Ryan because he’s self-absorbed, and Brendon doesn’t mean that in a harsh way, it’s just the way Ryan is; Jon because he’s still asleep on his feet, coffee or not; and Spencer because he’s aware of Brendon, in a way that Brendon tries not to think too much about, although he thinks that Spencer spends quite a lot of time contemplating it, turning things over in his mind. When it comes down to it, though, Spencer follows his instincts, not his head, and that’s what keeps them at a safe distance on days like today.

He’s nearly dozed off without intending anything of the sort, head back against the fuzzy grain of the sofa upholstery, when Spencer says low-voiced, “Brendon.”

Brendon wakes up, and groggily thanks Spencer’s instincts again, because Spencer’s hand is hovering over his shoulder, unwilling to touch. Brendon spares him another smile, struggling upright, and says, “Time?”

“Five minutes.” Spencer frowns, and Brendon can see the wheels turning, can see him remembering last night and thinking through this morning and putting together all of the puzzle pieces that make up the pulse beneath Brendon’s skin. “I thought you might want a few to wake up.”

“Thanks, man.” Putting on the façade is easy, even if he knows it won’t fool Spencer for a second. It’s mostly autopilot anyway, something to steer him through this interview so he doesn’t have to wear himself out with questions and correct answers while his brain is still fuzzy with weariness. He’s tired. The latte won’t keep him going for more than an hour; he should have gotten an extra shot of espresso.

He doesn’t realize his head is in his hands, palms scrubbing exhaustion from his face, until the shadows shift and he pulls them away, opening his eyes in surprise. Spencer’s crouched down in front of him, studying his face. Brendon wants to be uncomfortable, to shift away and put out the vibes that had warned Spencer off earlier, last night and this morning, but he honestly doesn’t care. He’s too tired for Spencer’s proximity to unsettle him, even with the buzz still lingering under his skin. Last night wasn’t enough, he knows. It was only enough to get him through this part of the day.

Spencer’s watching him, keen-eyed. Brendon drops his hands and looks back.

“Can I help?” Spencer asks, and it’s so far from what Brendon was expecting that he boggles for a minute, empty of words.

“No,” Brendon says. He takes the sting out of it with the slightest hint of a smile, apologetic. “Thanks for offering, though.”

Spencer nods slowly, and backs off, shifting back onto his heels for a second before standing and taking the chair next to Brendon’s end of the sofa. Brendon watches him without real intent, just following the lines of his body; the way he moves away, but not too far. The curve of his shoulders, still half-turned toward Brendon. In case he should need anything. In case he should change his mind and ask.

“Spence,” Brendon says suddenly, surprising himself a little by saying it, but not enough to wish it taken back. Spencer looks over, eyes sharp and aware, waiting. Brendon just looks at him for a few seconds, taking him in, letting himself look through the fuzzy haze of weariness.

“Tell you what,” Brendon says, and it still feels like a surprise, but not a bad one. He’s more sure of this than he has been in a while, even at the club last night with the bass throbbing through his bones and the lights flickering over his skin.

Spencer raises an eyebrow, patient. Brendon gives him the flicker of a smile.

“Next time,” he says. “Next time, I’ll let you try.”

Spencer regards him evenly. Then he says, “Okay.”

“Panic at the Disco,” someone says in the doorway. Ryan stands, nudging Jon until he gets to his feet. Spencer looks away, stretching out and getting ready, limbering up to meet the interviewers.

Brendon pastes on a smile and heads out to face the day.


	35. The taste of you on my lips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spencer/Brendon, Brendon/OMC

They meet the guy at a bar.

It’s not anyone they know, anyone who’s ever heard of them or has any idea who they are, just a guy at a bar who’s had his eye on Brendon for most of the night and doesn’t look like he’s in the market for a long-term commitment.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at Brendon to ask the question, because in this alone, Brendon is the one who gets to decide. Brendon glances at the guy, ducks his head _yes._

Spencer lays down the rules before they leave – “You only get him. I watch. Anytime I say no, you stop.” The guy shrugs, says, “Whatever, man,” and his eyes slide to Brendon again. Brendon’s staying silent; he’s already given consent.

He doesn’t have to wait long, once they get in the door. Spencer says, “Well?” and Brendon slides to his knees, undoing the guy’s pants and belt buckle. He doesn’t fumble, but his eyes flick over, once, to where Spencer is making himself comfortable in the armchair in the corner.

Brendon takes the guy in mostly smoothly, considering that it’s been a long time since he’s had someone else’s cock in his mouth, someone who wasn’t Spencer. The guy exhales and thrusts his hips forward a little, and Brendon catches himself right before he chokes, takes the guy’s cock in deeper and lets his eyes find Spencer’s again. Spencer’s impassive, watching everything, taking it in.

Brendon sucks cock until the guy gets close, until he’s fucking Brendon’s mouth just a little rough and Brendon is mostly just taking it, and then Spencer says, “Brendon.”

Brendon slides off, ignoring the guy’s noise of complaint, and strips his clothes off. The complaining doesn’t last very long.

The guy asks if they have stuff, and Spencer doesn’t answer out loud, just tosses a tube from the chair which Brendon catches, fingers deft on the lid. Brendon almost closes his eyes when he pushes his fingers up beneath him, inside, still a little loose from when he fingered himself earlier while Spencer watched – almost closes his eyes, but doesn’t, because he’s watching Spencer.

He rolls the condom on with his fingers, because he’s learning to do it with his mouth but he hasn’t quite gotten it down yet, and turns over on his hands and knees. The guy says, “Fuck yeah,” but Brendon’s not really listening, eyes half-lidded.

The guy works himself in, and it’s a stretch at first, but eventually he’s in, flush against Brendon’s ass, and starts thrusting. It’s nice and slow, a steady tempo, and the cords in Brendon’s arm muscles stand out every time the guy’s cock pushes in and he has to balance.

Spencer is watching everything, and Brendon’s eyes are still open, watching Spencer back, except for when the guy hits the right spot and they flutter all the way shut for a second before he pulls them back open again. He licks his lips, and his mouth is already wet, swollen from sucking the guy’s cock. The taste of it is still in his mouth, and he _wants_ suddenly but he tamps it down, because he gets Spencer all to himself later. Later. His mouth is hanging half-open, slack from the fucking, and he things he can almost see himself, debauched and wanton, reflected in Spencer’s gaze.

When Brendon’s eyes flutter the next time, Spencer says “Aren’t you going to make him come, Brendon?” and Brendon flushes, works himself back harder on the guy’s cock even though there’s not much he can do besides squeeze, with him on his hands and knees and the guy’s hands anchoring his hips.

He keeps stealing glances at Spencer, trying to make sure that he’s doing it right, that he’s doing what Spencer wants. He thinks the guy has figured out by now that even though he’s the one with his cock in Brendon’s ass, Brendon is still Spencer’s, completely, he’s just letting someone else use him. Spencer is letting someone use him.

Brendon thinks about whether Spencer likes seeing this, whether Brendon looks good enough and sounds good enough and is being good enough, and he arches his back to take the guy in deeper (for Spencer) and moans louder when the next thrust jars him all the way down his spine (for Spencer) and forgets himself just for a second and lets his eyes fall shut, but he drags them open again because he knows Spencer wants to see him while he’s being fucked by someone else.

He zones out a tiny bit while he’s getting fucked, because there’s all of this _sensation_ , sweat trickling down his back and sparks shooting through his lower back and his cock hanging heavy and flushed between his legs. The guy has great stamina and he’s in no rush, pumping nice and steady so it goes on and on, until Brendon is dragging in every breath and his arms are starting to ache from holding himself up. His ass feels raw already, the lube squelching wetly with every thrust and wearing thin, forcing more friction.

He’s mostly tuned out, attention on the hot soreness in his ass and the thick ache in his cock, when Spencer says softly, “Arms stretched,” and Brendon remembers and stretches out again, pushing his ass further into the air and back, opening himself up wider for the guy’s cock. It changes the angle enough that the next thrust makes him gasp and tense up but not come, because he’s waiting for that. That’s for Spencer.

He’s still close, so close, but this is all about the other guy getting off, the other guy fucking him, so Brendon can’t touch his cock or anything, he just has to relax as much as he can and rock back into it, putting on a show. Not too much, though, because he doesn’t want to look fake, doesn’t want to come off as faking it. Just enough to show Spencer that he’s grateful.

Finally the guy speeds up a little, really working his cock into Brendon’s ass, and he adds a little twist and suddenly it’s too much, he’s too close, and the sound spills out of Brendon’s mouth before he even realizes he’s making it, choked and desperate. He has to beg, “Please, just wait, just, please, please,” because he can’t, he can’t yet, but he’s so close. He knows he shouldn’t have ever asked the guy to stop, but he’s so close and he _needs_.

His voice rises a little in panic (soclosesoclosesoclose) and Spencer cuts in over the sound of his own ragged breathing, the squish-squelch of the lube in his ass and smeared over the backs of his thighs, Spencer says, “It’s okay, shh,” and just like that, Brendon can breathe again, can take as much as he has to.

“You’re that close, Brendon?” Spencer asks, and his voice is rich and amused. Brendon feels the tension come back all at once, winding him up even tighter, because oh god, Spencer is _watching_ this. “Just from getting fucked?” Spencer continues, still light but not joking, eyes dark. “No one’s even touching your cock.”

Brendon’s cheeks flush and he bites his lip and yes, he’s close, and no one is touching his cock but he could probably come anyway, just from this, if it were Spencer inside him right now. The cock in his ass is a little shorter, a little thicker, and Brendon feels obscene stretched out around it, red and sticky under Spencer’s eyes. He knows Spencer can see him getting harder every time he says something that makes Brendon flush, can see the tip of his cock leaking and bobbing every time he’s thrust forward.

The guy’s fingers are digging in now, and he’s hitting the right spot every time, so that Brendon feels bruised inside and out, churned into putty. Spencer’s voice tickles his ears, telling him, “Your thighs are shaking, Brendon. Even though he’s fucking you so hard, I can see you shaking.”

Brendon moans without meaning to, and his face flushes hot again, the tips of his ears burning. Every single thing Spencer says just makes Brendon harder, closer, more desperate, and he really wants the guy to get off so it can be just the two of them, but at the same time, he doesn’t really want this to end; this feeling, the way he’s put on display so Spencer can watch some other guy fuck him up the ass and see every little giveaway sign showing how much he’s enjoying it.

“Get down on your elbows,” Spencer says, and Brendon buckles, stretching out even further and relishing the burn in his arm muscles and down the backs of his thighs. His ass is shoved high up in the air, thrusting up onto the guy’s cock, and when Brendon finishes adjusting the guy pauses, yanking them flush, and the palm of his hand stings Brendon’s ass hard enough to make the skin tingle.

Brendon’s mouth has fallen open without his permission, and the noise he makes isn’t one he would have ever wanted anyone to hear, but the guy’s palm lands over the same spot, burning red, and he makes it again, and again. His cock is flushed hard and dark red, every thrust making it sway between his legs, and it hurts but at the same time it’s so fucking good, being so close. He wants…he _needs_ to be able to come, because he feels like he’s going to come out of his skin otherwise, caught somewhere between the hands on his hips and the cock in his ass and Spencer’s eyes, soaking it all in.

Spencer jars him out of it, says, “Keep your head up, I want to see your face while he’s fucking you,” and Brendon shudders hard but his head snaps up, automatic reaction to Spencer asking him for something. The guy is fucking him faster now, screwing himself into Brendon’s ass, which feels sore and used, but then Spencer says, “Wait,” and Brendon misses something, he knows he does, shifting shakily back onto his knees, but he still figures it out fast when the guy pulls out and takes off the condom, hand over his cock pulling fast and frantic.

Brendon closes his eyes, but he arches into it, lips parted. His legs are strained, shaking a little with the effort of holding still, waiting for the guy to jerk off while precome trickles down the shaft of his own cock, still straining desperately upwards. He knows he won’t be allowed to come for a while, but even this feels like something, like getting closer.

The guy exhales hard, a harsh series of grunts, and come splatters over Brendon’s chest and face. He catches some of it on his tongue, and when he licks his lips, he gets even more of it, clinging bitter and sticky to his mouth. He opens his eyes and the first thing he sees is Spencer, watching him, focused and intent. He starts to zone out again, dazed, but Spencer says, “Lick it off,” and Brendon snaps his eyes forward again to see the strand hanging in a gleaming wet rope over the guy’s hand, which is still loosely wrapped around his cock.

Everything screams when he moves, but he drags himself forward, back down on his hands, and cleans the guy up. The taste is salty and thick on his tongue, but he licks up every last bit. “Say thank you,” Spencer rumbles, and Brendon’s voice feels cracked and raw when he speaks, but he does it.

Brendon misses when the guy leaves, because Spencer says, “On the bed, on your knees. Put your hands against the wall,” and Brendon scrambles to obey even though his muscles are all aching. He breathes in, out, and somewhere between those two Spencer returns, his fingers skating down Brendon’s sides, over the curve of his ass.

The hot feeling has faded, but it only takes the sting of Spencer’s palm to reawaken the sensation, sending pain and heat rushing to the surface. Brendon bites down hard on his lip to keep from begging, makes himself be still while Spencer touches him. Spencer spanks him again, then spreads his cheeks, stroking the tender skin inside the crease. It’s still slick with lube, making Spencer’s thumbs slide easily before his nails scrape across Brendon’s hole.

Brendon barely has time to shiver, and then Spencer’s fucking him with two fingers, working him open again even though he’s still stretched and gaping. He feels sore and bruised and open, and Spencer’s voice rumbles low against his ear, fucking him with words while his fingers fuck Brendon’s ass.

“Your mouth was so pretty stretched around that guy’s cock, licking up his come. You looked so good letting him fuck you, right in front of me, and you loved it, didn’t you? You loved his cock in your ass, knowing you were going to get mine, knowing I was watching you beg for it, knowing you would,” and Brendon cries out and comes, ass working around Spencer’s fingers when he pushes them in deep and fucks Brendon through it.

Spencer pushes Brendon down and he goes, without even thinking about it, rolling onto his knees and elbows so that Spencer can finger him again, prodding at his sore hole until Brendon makes a noise, pleading, and Spencer fills him up again with his cock.

Brendon is completely spent, tired and bruised and _open_ by the time Spencer takes him, and he’s pliant under Spencer’s hands but he still tries to help, pushing back every time Spencer thrusts forward, because Spencer’s inside of him now and Brendon is focused, he _needs._ Spencer fucks him hard enough that he whimpers, and he gets half-hard just from the memory of Spencer watching him get fucked and the feeling of Spencer inside him. Spencer reaches around and Brendon bites down on his tongue when Spencer starts jerking him, because it’s good but it’s too soon, still too soon.

Spencer’s doesn’t tell him to come, but he doesn’t give Brendon any other choice, so Brendon concentrates really hard and he finally does, crying out and shaking and completely soaked in sweat. His thighs are trembling like crazy, his cock twitching and it hurts but it still feels so good. Spencer thrusts in deep when Brendon starts coming, and then he rocks a little to get him through it, until Brendon is twitching hard and whimpering from the overstimulation.

Then he pulls out, and this time Brendon doesn’t even need to be instructed, he twists and arches and lets Spencer coat his skin, filthy and flushed and totally used. Brendon says, “Thank you,” and means it, and after he cleans Spencer up with long, grateful strokes of his tongue, Spencer licks some of the come off of his face and buries his hands in Brendon’s hair and pulls just a little, enough to get Brendon to make that soft, needy noise in the back of his throat.

He takes Brendon to the shower to get clean, and Brendon only stumbles once, even though he’s almost too exhausted by this point to stand. Spencer washes him off, slow and careful, and tugs Brendon out of the spray every few minutes to kiss him, in a way that’s just as dirty as the come flaking off of Brendon’s skin.

They sit together in bed afterwards, with their skin still damp and soft and warm from the shower, and Brendon squirms out of his towel until he’s naked, pressed against Spencer. Spencer won’t stop touching him, and Brendon can’t stop making noises every time he does; soft, grateful sounds whenever Spencer runs a hand over his skin.

Eventually, though, Spencer says, “Sleep,” and Brendon thinks he must agree, but he doesn’t stay awake long enough to remember.


	36. Put life on hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Panic! gen

As if the rest of it weren’t enough, the coffeemaker clogs up because he forgot to put a filter in, the grounds get everywhere, the glass pot shatters when he tries to shake the grounds out into the sink, and oh yeah, there’s _no coffee_. Fucking Ryan always finishes the pot and never starts a new one, and he never turns off the burner, either, so it smells like burnt plastic. Fucking fantastic.

Spencer kicks the cabinet under the sink, and stubs his toe.

The door slams open – slams, because it’s Brendon, who has never learned to be gentle with doors – and Brendon trips his way up the steps into the kitchenette.

“Hey, Spence,” he says, breathing hard and grinning, which means that the case of Capri Sun and bag of Skittles he started the afternoon with have probably already met their end. “We’re making a movie, like we did with Brian and Amanda. This one’s going to be better, though. It’s going to be _epic_. You have to be in it, we want you to be the villain. Super-villain, even. You’re going to try to foil Jon.”

Spencer dumps the soggy coffee grounds he’s managed to sweep up into the trash bin, and then curses Jon and his half-assed cleaning attempts because there’s no liner in the bin. He picks it up and starts trying to scoop the mess back out into the cracked carcass of the coffee pot, because if he just leaves it, that shit will stink the place up in a matter of hours. It’s been warm lately, so the bus is already pretty rank.

“Ryan’s got this idea of, like, a superhero action tragedy, he’s going to be Jon’s sidekick and they’re going to save the city in distress. Motion City, get it? The guys have already agreed to be the townspeople, we’re using that hall backstage as our set. The one with the weird windows, remember? I wanted to be the villain, but Ryan insists, he says it has to be you, man. We’re in need. It wouldn’t be a film without you, you’re our best man.”

Spencer considers telling Brendon to fuck off, but in the end it’s not really worth the effort. Most times if you let Brendon talk himself out, you’re off the hook, but it’s harder when he wants something. Especially something he’s this excited about. Then he pulls out the fucking puppy-dog eyes.

“The Hush Sound are going to be your minions, so that you really come off as an overlord. They’re pros from the last shoot, so we thought they deserved – okay, well, they demanded – a bigger part. Greta’s going to be your sexy arch-villainess, she’s got these boots…”

Spencer gives up on making another pot of coffee – the pot’s broken, anyway, and he’s not even in the mood anymore – and slumps down on the floor between the couch and the cabinet. It’s quiet for a few seconds after that, so Spencer assumes Brendon finally realized he’s not really listening. He can’t be sure, because he has his eyes closed, and his head buried in his hands.

There’s a tentative touch at his knee, the fluttering brush of contact that means Brendon wants to touch but has finally been trained to respect Spencer’s personal boundaries. “Spence?” Brendon asks, and that’s hesitant, too. “You okay, man?”

Spencer inhales, exhales, and can’t think of a different answer. “No.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, and then some scuffling, and his cramped haven is abruptly invaded by a wriggling body that shouldn’t be able to fit with him in this space. Spencer raises his head to give Brendon a fuck-off, but when he looks up Brendon’s pulled out the eyes, alert and sympathetic.

“Want to talk about it?” Brendon asks solemnly, and Jesus, Ryan’s got him conditioned well.

“No,” Spencer says firmly.

“Okay,” Brendon agrees, and then doesn’t leave. Spencer waits a few minutes, but Brendon just sits there, arms wrapped around his knees, squished into a corner barely big enough for either one of them.

“It’s just shit,” Spencer says finally, even though he still doesn’t want to talk about it, really. “I’m having a shitty fucking day and we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere and I want…”

He stops that one before it comes out, because what he misses is home, and he’s not sure where he means, or who. He just doesn’t want to be here today.

Brendon doesn’t push him, though. He just nods, sets his chin on his hands, and doesn’t go away. Spencer’s beginning to not mind so much.

They sit there for a while, and eventually Brendon does that thing he does – it’s like some sort of superpower, Spencer’s never been able to figure out how he does it – where he doesn’t intrude on your personal space, and then he’s suddenly all over it. Spencer has an arm around him and Brendon’s fingers in his hair and Brendon’s head in his lap, and he has no idea when Brendon moved or why Spencer let him do it.

His eyes are scratchy, and his throat feels rough when he clears it. “Hey,” he says, awkwardly patting the back of Brendon’s head. “Don’t you have to go make a movie?”

Brendon shrugs. “It’ll wait,” he says. “I’d rather be here.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says, and when Brendon does that thing again and somehow ends up draped over his lap with both arms around his neck, he just closes his eyes and breathes.


	37. Stop the clock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spencer/Brendon, leaning toward s/D.

In retrospect, the sour gummy worm-eating competition with Jon may not have been the best idea.

“You’re crashing so hard, aren’t you?” Spencer asks from the bedroom doorway, voice rich with amusement.

“No,” Brendon lies, jerking his eyelids open. “I’m totally up. What’s going on? Did Jon and Ryan go home?”

“Yeah.” Spencer leans against the doorframe, hands in the pockets of his jeans and a slight smile on his face. “Are you going to sleep?”

“No way,” Brendon begins, and then has to pause for a jaw-popping yawn. “I’m up. Let’s have some fun.”

“We can take one night off, you know,” Spencer points out, reaching down to unlace his shoes. Spencer, unlike Brendon, never toes off thousand-dollar sneakers.

“Tour,” Brendon reminds him. “Bus. Other guys.”

“We’ve got three days left,” Spencer says, slipping into bed behind Brendon, wrapping an arm around him to draw him close. Brendon wriggles agreeably backwards and allows himself to be spooned.

“Not enough,” he murmurs, but sighs when Spencer rubs his stomach, thumb dipping lightly into his navel.

“Tummy hurt?” Spencer murmurs, dipping in again and wiggling a little. Brendon squirms until Spencer tightens his grip, arm pressing harder against Brendon’s chest to hold him in place.

“Nah. Full of worms,” Brendon says. He’s still a little tired, but the combination of spooning, squirming and squeezing is sending signals to his brain that it’s almost time to get naked, so the lethargy is fading fast.

Spencer obviously feels the same way, because he rolls Brendon onto his back and leans over to kiss him, prying his jaw open with gentle fingers so he can slide his tongue inside Brendon’s mouth.

“Contacts out?” he asks, voice already husky enough to make Brendon’s skin prickle. Spencer’s sex voice is another signal that his body responds to automatically, even without anything else.

“Out,” he confirms, lips brushing Spencer’s fingers when he speaks.

“Ready for bed?” Spencer asks, and even without looking Brendon can hear the smile.

“Yeah,” he says, squirming around to slide both hands up under Spencer’s worn-in t-shirt. They kiss again, shifting gradually from the initial tangle of tongues to something softer but with an edge, Spencer stealing tiny licks into Brendon’s mouth and pausing every time Brendon tries to surge up and catch his tongue.

“I want to try something,” Spencer rumbles, the vibrations of his voice like sliding over velvet-covered gravel, and Brendon shudders closer without even thinking.

“Yeah,” he agrees immediately, because he’s not stupid; whatever it is, if it’s something Spencer wants, it’s going to be good.

He gets one more kiss before Spencer’s hand snakes into his sweatpants and starts jerking him off slowly, and then the slide of Spencer’s tongue in his mouth when he forgets to breathe, hips arching up into the touch.

They both help him kick off his sweatpants so that he’s only in his shirt, which rides up over his hipbones when he tilts his hips up helpfully.

“Getting close?” Spencer murmurs in his ear, and Brendon opens his mouth to answer but it comes out a whine. He catches his breath and says “Yeah, yes,” a second later, and Spencer’s hand gets faster and rougher before suddenly slowing to a stop.

“What…?” Brendon asks, but then Spencer rolls on top of him, heavier body pressing him down into the embrace of the mattress, and he shuts up to enjoy Spencer’s lips against his, and Spencer’s nimble fingers rubbing over his nipples.

They make out for what feels like an hour; what actually is an hour, judging by the beep of Spencer’s wristwatch when it marks the time. Brendon’s been getting in a few good gropes here and there, but Spencer won’t let him do anything more, and his hands have been sticking to places Brendon would conservatively rate PG.

When Spencer moves slightly to the side and starts jerking him off again, Brendon isn’t entirely prepared. He’s not complaining, though, and rocks into it at once, straining towards orgasm.

“I’m…” is as far as he gets before Spencer stops, and the rest of the sentence is strangled into a groan.

“Not coming?” Spencer suggests against his lips, and Brendon tries halfheartedly to nip, knowing even as he does that Spencer won’t let him, will only return the offense with a sharper bite.

“Please?” Brendon tries. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what Spencer wants; these are usually the times that Brendon starts at the top of the list and works his way downward. Good behavior and begging are often the fastest way to getting off.

“Hmm,” Spencer replies, and Brendon sighs when Spencer pushes his shirt up and starts licking at his nipples, catching them in his teeth gently and paying absolutely no attention whatsoever to Brendon’s cock.

He makes a stealthy attempt on the drawstring of Spencer’s pants, but the resulting growl makes him drop his hand immediately, waiting patiently for Spencer’s next move.

Spencer’s attentions are kind of soothing, actually. He’s not touching to arouse, necessarily, it’s more the sensation of his hands on Brendon’s skin that are keeping him at that low-burn. He stays still, paying attention in case Spencer gives him a cue, but gradually drifts into a drowsy state of half-awareness, lulled by Spencer’s gentle hands.

When Spencer’s hand closes on his cock the next time, he snaps out of drowsiness and into arousal so fast that his entire body spasms with it. “Please,” he tries again, spine curving towards Spencer’s hand, which is slapping fast and wet against his stomach with every pull.

Spencer makes the “Hmm” sound again, and Brendon’s open-mouthed and gasping when he suddenly stops, giving Brendon’s cock one last squeeze before letting go. Brendon doesn’t even feel ashamed for the whine coming from his throat, or the way his hips push up to follow Spencer’s hand.

“Relax,” Spencer says, and he knows Brendon well enough to stop the immediate grumbled argument with his mouth, licking and sucking until Brendon’s mouth feels swollen and he’s forgotten what it was he was going to complain about.

He remembers, of course, when Spencer eases out of the kiss and spoons up behind him, tugging Brendon in against his chest.

“What?” he asks stupidly, cock still standing jauntily upright beneath the sheet. “What…?”

“Shh,” Spencer soothes, and Brendon’s mouth snaps shut, but he’s still confused.

“Do this for me,” Spencer says. “Just try it.”

Brendon takes a few minutes to mull over how thrilled he actually is with the whole lack of orgasm thing. It’s not very much, honestly. Spencer flattens his hand over Brendon’s stomach, not quite low enough to nudge his cock, and says, “Relax. You’re thinking too much.”

Brendon sighs, hoping that it expresses just how put-upon he feels about this, and Spencer chuckles, low and warm next to his ear. It sends a tendril of warmth all the way through him, releasing the reluctant clench of his muscles so he can relax back into Spencer’s embrace.

He’s drifting somewhere between mellow and asleep when Spencer’s watch beeps, and the sheet rustles for a second before he feels Spencer’s hand, stroking him firmly back to full hardness.

“Fuck,” Brendon breathes, tipping his head back to expose his throat and working his hips in tandem with Spencer’s fist. “Now?”

“Not yet,” Spencer says, and Brendon moans, not sure whether the sound is unhappy, frustrated, or just turned on.

“When?” he whispers, and then, “Ah, ah,” followed by another groan as Spencer slows his strokes and lets go. Spencer puts his hand on Brendon’s thigh instead of his stomach this time, and the contact is distracting, but also reassuring, like Spencer’s warm chest against Brendon’s back and the steady rise and fall of his breath.

This time when Spencer’s watch beeps, Brendon’s ready for it, and instantly hard even before Spencer’s hand closes around him. “Please, please, please,” he says, loud after the stillness, and teeters right on the edge before Spencer pulls his hand away, taking the promise of orgasm with it.

“You don’t have to beg,” he says, tipping Brendon’s head back, mouth open over Brendon’s parted lips. His tongue slips in, quick and wet, before he continues. “That’s not what I want.”

“What do you want?” Brendon asks, but Spencer’s doing that thing again, soft hands and deft tongue, and the words are half-mumbled as his entire body relaxes, tension seeping out of every muscle.

Spencer doesn’t answer, but at this point he really doesn’t need to. Brendon’s starting to clue in.

This time he actually falls asleep, and is jerked wide-awake by the beep of Spencer’s watch and the heat of his hand, closing dry and firm over sensitive flesh. “Spencer,” he whispers, thrusting helplessly into Spencer’s hand, and leaves his mouth open when Spencer traces Brendon’s lips with his tongue.

Spencer stops just as Brendon is inhaling to say he’s going to come, and the denial causes an involuntary half-sob before Brendon gets himself under control, nerves still buzzing from the stimulation.

“Shh,” Spencer whispers again, and Brendon’s half-asleep before he even hears it.

He thinks, as the room starts to lighten into pre-dawn gray, that he’ll be harder to rouse each time, or that his body will stop responding. But each time, he hears the beep and snaps fully awake, cock springing eagerly into Spencer’s touch. His nerves are singing, skin prickling like he’s been poked with a live wire.

And each time, Spencer brings him all the way to the edge, and stops right before he comes.

He curses Spencer out during the sunrise, words soft and slurred, drowned out by Spencer’s throaty chuckle. Spencer just rolls him onto his back and kisses him, plundering his mouth and skimming one hand up his side, keeping the sheet from coming into contact with Brendon’s throbbing cock.

“What do you want?” Brendon asks, and he means it to be a whisper but it comes out a moan.

Spencer pauses, thumb still rubbing circles on Brendon’s hips but mouth puckered, thoughtful. “Just this,” he says finally, and part of Brendon wants to protest, but the rest of him feels Spencer’s lips return warm on his and melts back into lassitude.

He doesn’t push the next time, just turns his head so that he can inhale the scent of Spencer’s soap, mingled with cologne in the hollow of his throat, while his hips rock lazily into Spencer’s grip.

“I want you to come,” Spencer murmurs into his ear, and Brendon startles fully awake, cock twitching.

The rhythm doesn’t change, which means he has to concentrate, especially as tired as he is, as tired as his body is. He still gets there, though, the rush and build beneath his skin that means it’s close, he’s close, and he wonders for a split-second if Spencer is going to stop again before he breathes, “Spencer,” and comes all over Spencer’s hand.

They make out for a while afterwards, while Brendon’s body is humming and both of them are slipping back into drowsy contentment. Brendon makes an inquisitive noise, and pulls himself together enough to lean back and raise his eyebrows, hand wandering down to rest unintrusively at the waistband of Spencer’s pants.

Spencer shakes his head and kisses Brendon again hard, which along with the twitching aftershocks and sleep deprivation is enough to make his head spin. “Later,” he says, and bites Brendon’s lip, teeth sinking in just far enough that he can feel it. “Sleep now.”

“Yeah,” is what Brendon means to say, but he’s asleep even before his lips form the word.


	38. Almost Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon/Brendon

They're in Ryan's backyard when it happens, which is only fitting, in a way. They've rediscovered themselves here, all of them, and now Jon feels like they're rediscovering each other as well.

He doesn't get farther than his hand on Brendon's chest, though, hoodie zipper pinched between thumb and forefinger, before Brendon says, "Don't."

Jon shifts his gaze from the metal zipper to Brendon's eyes, barely visible in the gloom of post-twilight. He hears something crash inside; probably a plate from the kitchen, where Spencer and Ryan are cleaning up the remains of their evening take-out. Brendon doesn’t look away.

He starts to lean in without even thinking about it, drawn by soft lips – pillowed – and what he’s not imagining in Brendon’s eyes, but this time Brendon turns his head, doesn’t just try to stop him with words Jon can choose not to believe.

“I can’t,” he says, and Jon doesn’t believe that, either.

“Why?” he asks. His thumb rubs over the zipper, absorbing texture and the slow-warming feel of metal against his skin. He hears Ryan’s voice raised for just a second, not in anger, floating through the open patio door as he calls something to Spencer in another part of the house. He doesn’t bother to look away, either. He trusts all of them, even with this. He thinks Brendon does, too.

“I won’t stop,” Brendon says, along with something that might have been a word, had he not bitten his tongue. “If I start, I won’t stop.”

Jon’s hand has migrated from the zipper; he doesn’t realize he’s petting Brendon’s chest slowly, stroking the fabric smooth, until Brendon makes another noise and twists slightly away.

“What…?” Jon asks. He’s a little slow on the uptake sometimes, he knows, but he’s also right about this. He’s always right when it comes to this. Brendon’s never been able to lie to any of them anyway, and least of all to himself.

“I’m not losing them again,” Brendon says, half of a conversation that Jon doesn’t think he can follow without hearing the rest. “I just got them back.”

Spencer appears in the doorway before Jon has a chance to think of a reply. Jon’s not embarrassed, and Brendon doesn’t pull away, but there’s enough of something in Spencer’s stance for Jon’s hand to fall, back onto his own thigh and broken-in denim. Spencer is an outline in the dark, backlit by the house, expression veiled by the late evening. Jon doesn’t think it would matter much anyway; unlike Brendon, Spencer doesn’t give much away.

“Brendon,” Spencer says, and if there’s a hint of rebuke in his tone, it’s probably in Jon’s imagination. “We’ve only got one piece of pepperoni left, do you want it?”

Whatever moment there had been, whether it had really existed or not, it’s gone now. Brendon leans back and curls up to stand, tugging a little absently at his hoodie. It rides up over his hips before he even lets it go, a losing battle. His hands are still hidden, at least, sleeves pulled down to the knuckles over curled fingers.

“Yeah,” he says. “Thanks.”

Spencer doesn’t give Jon a meaningful look or shift his weight, lingering in the doorway, just turns to go back into the house. Jon still knows better than to think that he doesn’t know. He lies back onto the grass and listens to Brendon’s footfalls padding back across the patio; the intonation of a question from Ryan and something Brendon says in reply that’s just a trifle too loud. Brendon is always the most obvious when he thinks he’s hiding something.

Jon pulls a blade of grass from the lawn and twirls it between his fingers, listening to the sounds of the suburbs at night. He wonders if it’s possible to stop something when you haven’t even started it yet.


	39. Foreplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spencer/Brendon
> 
> disarm_d recently hosted an [Orgasm Denial Pornomeme](http://disarm-d.livejournal.com/86516.html). You can't tease me with something like that and not expect me to put out. Er, so to speak.

It’s Brendon’s kink, not Spencer’s, which is what makes it relatively easy for Spencer to stop when he feels Brendon’s thighs tense, mouth sliding off of Brendon’s cock as he hears the ragged inhale.

Brendon’s usually good about warning him – and has been ever since Spencer ended up with an unexpected mouthful of come, reached for Brendon’s balls and _squeezed_ – but he never feels it coming until he’s about to crest, and then it won’t matter if Spencer stops or not, the slightest thing will set him off. Spencer needs him to last longer than that, so he wraps a hand around Brendon’s cock as he stands, squeezes low around the base and licks Brendon’s lips with the taste of salt and musk on his tongue.

Brendon whimpers, and his hips stutter forward, eyes tightly closed. Spencer hadn’t told him what he’d planned, but from the way Brendon’s cock is twitching against his hand, Spencer’s guessing he already knows. He forces Brendon’s mouth open far enough to slip his tongue inside, fingers pressing firm against Brendon’s jaw until he yields.

“You have a choice,” Spencer murmurs, voice just a little raspy from the blowjob. He fights the urge to clear his throat, because as soon as he speaks, Brendon’s eyelashes flutter like mad. “Come now with your own hand,” he begins, squeezing slightly in warning lest Brendon jump the gun, “after lunch with mine,” kisses pressed along Brendon’s jawline, down to find the jackrabbiting pulse-point, “after soundcheck with my mouth,” tongue flattening over Brendon’s Adam’s Apple, which never fails to make him moan and doesn’t disappoint this time either, “or after the show, you can fuck me.”

Brendon’s head drops back, throat arching forward towards Spencer’s mouth. He takes too long in answering; Spencer drags his hand up the spit-slick length of Brendon’s cock and rubs his thumb in steady circles over the head.

“Wait,” Brendon begs. Spencer gives him five seconds, then squeezes again, and Brendon shudders so hard he stutters when he says, “Stop, please, stop. Later, I want it later. After the show.”

“Final answer?” Spencer asks, not even attempting the celebrity impression. Brendon’s not in any shape to make fun of him for it anyway, but Spencer’s not really in the mood.

“Yes,” Brendon agrees, barely more than a sigh. “Tonight.”

“If you come before then, it’s all off,” Spencer warns; unnecessarily, because Brendon’s the one who made up the rules in the first place, but it never hurts to give him a reminder. Spencer squeezes one more time, calling it another reminder, but in truth he just loves the way Brendon’s face flushes.

He wipes his hand off and leaves Brendon to pull himself together, taking a minute in private himself to readjust his pants before he runs into anyone else. Brendon comes out a few minutes later, eyes dark but steady, and Spencer can still see the ridge of his erection through his jeans, poorly hidden beneath the short hem of his shirt.

He’s not really surprised when Brendon finds him later, curling up on the couch against his side with his head on Spencer’s shoulder. “It’s easier when you’re around,” Brendon says when Spencer arches an eyebrow at him, his own eyes downcast. “Weird, right?”

“Masochist,” Spencer teases, but he doesn’t protest when their noses bump en route to the kiss Brendon presses awkwardly against his lips.

Spencer cops a feel, and Brendon groans softly, still hard against his hand. “How many hours?” he asks, eyes peeling reluctantly open as they both move back.

Spencer ticks the hours off on his fingers, holding them up one at a time. “Three, two, one.”

“What if we get rid of the three,” Brendon tries, folding one of Spencer’s fingers down again. “Maybe the two.”

“Hotel night,” Spencer murmurs, the magic words, and presses the heel of his hand against Brendon’s straining erection just to see his eyes flutter closed.

Brendon rubs against him a little, which is only torturing himself and they both know it, but Spencer doesn’t stop him. “If I’m on my best behavior, will you blow me in the shower first?” he asks.

“If you’re on your best behavior,” Spencer murmurs, “I might let you finish fucking me instead of making you stop when I come.”

Brendon opens his mouth to reply, but they’re interrupted before he gets the chance.

“You guys are so weird,” Ryan pronounces, a statement of fact rather than an opinion. Spencer glances sideways to see both Ryan and Jon in the doorway, sunglasses on and wallets in hand, back from whatever excursion they’d been on after soundcheck. He slides his hand casually away from Brendon’s lap, and half-hides the smirk when Brendon makes a low noise of protest.

“You suck on Keltie’s toes,” Spencer retorts, because best friends are totally allowed to play dirty at this game, and he hasn’t allowed himself to be embarrassed around Ryan since they caught each other jerking off to the exact same magazine spread back in eighth grade.

“Keltie has nice feet,” Ryan argues. “She’s a dancer.”

“Brendon has a nice – “ Spencer begins, before Jon breaks in, “Woah, okay, new subject.”

“Neapolitan ice cream,” Brendon pipes up instantly, because he’s a master at the new subject game and is currently on a three-day winning streak.

“Mmm,” Jon agrees, after all three of them spend a moment floundering for something to say.

“That doesn’t count,” Ryan rules, before adding, “Sweet.”

“Sticky,” Spencer replies, with a smile that Ryan knows him too well to misinterpret. Ryan makes a face and an excuse, flapping a hand at them and taking Jon with him when he leaves.

Spencer turns the smile on Brendon, this time with slightly more of a knowing edge and his hand rubbing slowly along the line of Brendon’s cock, and Brendon groans softly, pressing closer against Spencer’s side. “I hate you,” he grumbles, but parts his lips for Spencer’s tongue, swinging one leg over to straddle Spencer’s lap.

“I can tell,” Spencer assures him, squeezing until Brendon moans and rolls his hips forward, head dropping back. “Three more hours. You going to make it?”

“Yeah,” Brendon replies, low and drugged, rocking steadily against Spencer’s hand. “Don’t stop.”


	40. Five times Jon bit William when he wasn't really that hungry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the same universe as _Find your way back home._

_Five times Jon bit William when he wasn't really that hungry!_

1\. The first time they meet another vampire on tour, and Bill is friendly and open as always, just a little bit drunk after the show. Jon makes some excuse that Bill never questions, drinks barely a sip and leaves the marks in case their new friend gets any ideas, a twin-puncture message saying _he’s already taken._

2\. Right as the Academy tour finishes, when they’re going to be split up for a couple of days and Bill wants to make sure Jon doesn’t go hungry. Jon says he’s fine, but Bill just says, “For now, yeah, and then for what, the next two days? Come on, take it,” and won’t let him leave until he’s full.

3\. One night during sex, when they’re sliding together, Jon grinding down against Bill and listening to him gasp. He doesn’t even think about it, just sinks his teeth in and hears Bill say, “Jon, oh, _fuck._ ”

4\. The first time Jon really talks about being a vampire and drinking blood with Bill, who shakes his hair back and asks, “Will you do it to me?” and his eyes are so serious and intent that Jon can’t say no.

5\. One morning when Bill wakes him up with kisses, lazy and tasting of laughter, smiles and asks, “Hungry?” When Jon shakes his head, Bill starts to roll out of bed, the long lines of his body catching sunlight from the window. Jon reaches out and catches his wrist, pulls him back into bed and says, “I changed my mind.”

 _Five times William bit Jon! (And someone saw and maybe was worried?)_

1\. On the set of the _16 Candles_ shoot when Jon stopped by to visit. Bill thought it was _hilarious._

2\. The day Jon ate the last piece of pizza, and Bill yelled, “Fuck you, you don’t even like Pizza Hut!” and there was a wrestling match that somehow ended with Jon’s wrist in Bill’s mouth. Jon said, “Ow,” and Bill said, “I’m hungry, that’s what you get.”

3\. Backstage at a show against one of the speakers, sucking blood to the surface with Jon gasping, “I have to go onstage,” and Bill just biting down harder.

4\. Right after Spencer and Jon spent an entire evening curled up together talking and nudging each other gently, sharing secrets. Bill had climbed onto the couch behind Jon, long gangly limbs all over the place, smiled at Spencer over Jon’s shoulder and then bitten his neck. Bill has always been good at identifying his competition.

5\. When Jon hadn’t wanted to get out of bed, hand over his eyes because Brendon had flinched again without meaning to, and Bill had bitten him gently, barely catching skin between his teeth, and said softly, “I would share it with you if I could.”


	41. Social Activism (or, How to Make the World a Better Place by Kissing Spencer Smith)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for disarm_d's [pornothon](http://disarm-d.livejournal.com/tag/pornothon), with a disappointing lack of actual porn.

_Social Activism (or, How to Make the World a Better Place by Kissing Spencer Smith)_

The concert is going to be huge.

Pete calls it the emo-punk Woodstock until they all turn against him, Bill claiming he doesn’t do emo and Ryan refusing to be labeled and Gabe asking who Pete is calling a punk. Then MyChem shows up – which apparently Patrick knew about, but no one else had, and no one knows whether Pete has forgiven him yet – and suddenly they’re not at all sure what genre the concert is supposed to be, just that it’s going to be…well, huge.

Everyone is doing a lot of wandering around on the grounds the morning of the concert, because there’s not a lot to do besides soundchecks and drinking diet sodas, and the major partying already happened last night.

Spencer is walking alongside Jon, talking about how hard it would be to eat Chinese food with drumsticks but how Brendon would probably try to do it anyway if they told him, when they walk into the rough circle of what looks like a fight.

For a second Spencer thinks it’s the Pete/Mikey showdown everyone has been more or less waiting for, but then he realizes it’s actually Gerard and _Patrick,_ in what looks less like a fight and more like an earnest, animated discussion.

“I’m just saying,” Gerard says, and then he sees Spencer and his whole face lights up, like he’s just had a brilliant idea. Spencer starts surreptitiously backing up, but Jon’s behind him and Gerard has hold of his wrist before Spencer decides whether or not to make a break for it.

He’s blinking in apprehension as Gerard drags him into the loose ring of spectators, especially when he glimpses the raised-eyebrow look on Patrick’s face. “Um,” Spencer says nervously, catching Ryan’s eye on the edge of the ring and sending him a pleading look for rescue.

“This is political,” Gerard announces, and kisses him.

Brendon catcalls. Spencer makes a mental note to throw out all of the Capri Sun as soon as he gets back to the bus, and then he goes into full-blown panic mode, because Brendon isn’t the only one. Gabe Saporta is equally enthusiastic, and he’s followed by a whole chorus Spencer can’t even begin to name. One of them is, predictably, Pete Wentz.

And Gerard is still kissing him. Spencer has only known Gerard for about a day, basically waving once in passing and then talking to him last night for a while when everyone else was getting drunk, and he doesn’t think this is necessarily the next logical step in their relationship.

He’s still basically frozen in horror, eyes firmly closed because some part of his brain insists that if he can’t see them, no one else can see him, but Gerard tilts his chin, ridiculous oversized sunglasses bumping Spencer’s cheek, and holy shit, is that his _tongue?_

Spencer’s eyes fly open, and the first thing he sees (besides Gerard, who is very close up) is Ryan looking caught somewhere between pissed and amused, and Jon not even bothering to pretend he’s not entertained by this, a huge grin on his face.

It’s definitely Gerard’s tongue. Spencer keeps his lips clamped firmly shut – didn’t Gerard already have someone for public displays of (gay) affection? – but Gerard is surprisingly gentle, coaxing and licking very lightly at his lips, and when Spencer doesn’t give in he starts _nibbling._

Spencer’s still not sure how Gerard’s tongue ended up successfully penetrating his mouth (he thinks it had something to do with the nibbling), but it’s there now, and they’ve gone past kissing into seriously making out. Spencer’s blush feels hotter than the sun, and he will never live this down. Ever. Even if he tries, the other guys will never let him.

Speaking of. He hasn’t heard any other catcalls, which makes him hope desperately that Brendon (and Ryan and Jon) somehow magically disappeared from this event, but when he cracks his eye open again he sees it’s because Brendon has actually _fallen down laughing_ and is rolling on the grass in a fit of helpless mirth.

All of the Capri Sun _and_ the Red Bull.

Why him? Spencer wonders a bit desperately. Why not William Beckett? He’s more used to the whole gay kissing-fondling-groping thing, and he’s prettier than Spencer is, maybe if Spencer can get Gerard to relinquish his tongue – and his lips, which feel swollen and oh god, he doesn’t want to think about what he’ll look like when they finally break apart – he could suggest Gerard use Bill for this little demonstration instead. Or Gabe. Gabe will kiss anyone. Enthusiastically.

He’s about to try to suggest this, with or without reclaiming his tongue, when Gerard’s hand lands on his ass.

Spencer squeaks. It’s a sound that he never wants to hear again, not from himself, not from anyone watching, and definitely not on youtube, and oh shit, is Pete _filming this?_ Spencer makes another sound, a helpless meep of wordless pleading for this to be over soon, and that’s when Gerard – who has not at all gotten the message that Spencer is not really all that political, thanks – gets a better grip on his ass and _squeezes._

If the ground could swallow him, it should do so now. He’s trying to remember the words to the prayers they all said together in Catholic school, only it seems like sacrilege to even be thinking of those now and anyway he can’t find one that seems appropriate to the situation. Over Gerard’s shoulder he sees that Gerard’s band, at least, seems to be of the opinion that this is all par for the course, and maybe it is for _them,_ but this is definitely not Spencer’s course.

Gerard releases him with a triumphant smacking sound as their lips finally tear apart, and now that he’s no longer being held up Spencer stumbles back so fast that he falls on his ass. Gerard’s usual political make-out partner Frank has hit the ground alongside Brendon, giggles blown into all-out howls of laughter. Pete gives him two thumbs up. Jon, who has shown admirable restraint and was in Spencer’s good books until right now, raises his camera and snaps a picture.

The tips of Spencer’s ears have possibly burnt off into ash from humiliation.

Gerard smiles down at him, that sweet giddy smile that makes him look about twelve (and god, Spencer did not need to have that thought just now), and offers Spencer a hand up.

“See?” he says, but he’s actually talking to Patrick, not Spencer, and besides the warm clasp of his hand he makes no move to molest Spencer any further. Spencer isn’t sure whether to be grateful or try to work up some sort of outrage. He can’t be all that outraged, though, while Gerard is still holding onto his hand and talking earnestly to Patrick and Spencer’s lips are still buzzing and kind of, well, numb.

“It’s not whether we personally feel any desire to do it, it’s that we’re saying it’s okay, we’re accepting, and we’re giving them proof that it’s not just talk, we really are okay with it. Kids need that.” Gerard breaks off in the middle of his speech, looking over to smile warmly at Spencer. “Thanks.”

Spencer’s mind is still sort of dazed, and he was raised by a good family who taught him manners and politeness, so his response is automatic. “Anytime.”

Gerard’s smile slowly widens just as Spencer realizes what he’s said. There’s a fresh flush all the way up his neck and Brendon _shrieks_ with laughter, and some very determined part of Spencer tells him that he needs to get back some of his own or he might as well just slink off and die of embarrassment.

Gerard starts to turn back to Patrick and Spencer reaches out, yanks him back in, and smashes their lips together.

Brendon’s laughter abruptly stops. Frank’s doesn’t, but Spencer guesses (hopes) that’s probably because of the startled look on Gerard’s face. It’s not as thorough as their first kiss, but it’s definitely emphatic, and Spencer lets go feeling like he can now possibly walk away from this with a shred of dignity.

Gerard’s lips curl up into another smile. “Thanks,” he says again.

Spencer chooses his words more carefully this time, having learned from his mistakes. “Just…uh, doing my part for social activism.”

Patrick snorts. Spencer heads back to the bus and hopes that his ears stop burning before they actually have to go on in five hours.

  


Bonus:

 _Five Other Acts of Social Activism That Gerard Participated In_

1\. Planting trees for Earth Day. Frank sang “Johnny Appleseed” the whole time and kept ‘accidentally’ getting dirt on Bob.

2\. Writing a letter for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline to tell people, _I’ve been there, this is how it felt, and this is how I got help._

3\. Donating money to every charity whose letters got through, until Brian started screening his mail and offering the top candidates for selection at the end of every month.

4\. Keeping Frank away from Bob for an entire day, even when Frank got so bored he started kicking.

5\. Punching some jerk who’d been manhandling his girlfriend over her protests. Everyone had been shocked, and Frank had looked at him with a funny crooked grin every time he came over to change the ice on Gerard’s knuckles.


	42. Five times for Frank and Gerard

top 5 casual touches between frank and gerard

1\. When Frank nearly tipped over and fell headfirst off the stage, and Gerard reached out, fisted one hand in his shirt to keep him upright, and pulled him back.

2\. When Gerard had been jittery at the awards ceremony, with people offering him champagne every time he turned around, and he’d been sitting at their table with his leg bouncing and fingers clenched into the material of his dress pants, and Frank had reached over mid-conversation with Bob to put his hand over Gerard’s and help hold him together.

3\. When Mikey tossed a stack of comics onto the table for them to read because everyone was bored, and Gerard and Frank both reached for the same one, brushing hands and nearly knocking heads, and after the giggle fit Frank had suggested they share, and he read the whole thing with his head on Gerard’s lap, holding onto their bag of caramel corn.

4\. When Frank had gotten sick and Gerard had put one hand on his forehead, cool in comparison to the fever, and left it there until Frank fell asleep.

5\. When Gerard’s hair had gotten long again and kept falling in his eyes when he sketched, and one time Frank reached out and brushed it back, and Gerard looked up in surprise and then said, “Oh.”

  


 _five of gerard's smiles that frank will never forget (and how they got there)_

1\. When Frank agreed to join the band, and Gerard said, “Really?” and smiled so widely that even if Frank had said no, he would have changed his mind.

2\. When Frank wrote the second guitar part for _Early Sunsets_ and Gerard listened to the recording, bobbing his head in rhythm, and then smiled and said, “Yeah, man, yeah. That’s how it’s supposed to sound.”

3\. The first time they played a live show and Frank went to Gerard, feeling it out, leaning against him and soaking up the sweat, the energy, like an electric current. Gerard hadn’t smiled then, but he had later, when they were all wiped out and gross but still riding the high, and said, “I can’t wait to do that again.”

4\. Backstage after the first onstage kiss, when Gerard wandered in, threw a towel at him and beamed like the sun, saying, “Next time give me more warning, Frankie, and I won’t fuck up the chorus.”

5\. Backstage after the second kiss, with the phantom sensation of Gerard’s hand fisted in his hair and their mouths rubbing raw against each other, when Gerard smiled and said, “I owed you that, motherfucker,” and Frank grinned back and thought about how awesome it was that turnabout was fair play.


	43. five things ryan did/said to brendon and regretted

1\. The time in the old practice space after school, when Brendon was working two jobs and trying to graduate from high school and living in a crappy apartment and tired all the time but still trying to make it work. Ryan knew all of that, he did, but when Brendon had to cancel yet another practice to take a shift at work, Ryan still said, "We should never have let him in the band." He said it to Spencer, but Brendon heard, was _meant_ to hear. It worked, though. Brendon never missed another practice. Ryan tells himself that’s enough reason not to regret saying it, but he also knows how many meals Brendon missed because he didn’t have enough money to pay for them.

2\. Months of sexual tension and flirting with Brendon, and the first guy Ryan goes down on is Pete Wentz. He doesn’t regret that, even if it was mostly hero-worship and gratitude and not a lot of earnest desire. What he regrets is afterwards, the look on Brendon’s face when he came into the bathroom while Ryan was washing his face, and said, “I was waiting for you. To be the first.” Ryan turned off the water, dried his face with a towel to cover the flush, and said, “Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have.”

3\. Brendon is their musical genius. Everyone is good at their instrument, and contributes to their sound as a band, but Brendon is the one who can play the piano, the guitar, the bass, the drums, sing lead, and write every single part himself. This was Ryan’s dream, though, _Ryan’s_ album, and secretly he was afraid that if Brendon started writing songs, Ryan’s would all pale in comparison. So when Brendon came to him during recording, vibrating with excitement, saying, “Ross, listen to this, listen,” and played something that could have been a hit single and probably took him twenty minutes to come up with, Ryan said, “It’s okay. I don’t think it’s good enough for the album,” and Brendon just bobbed his head and never came to him first with an idea again. Ryan doesn’t miss the songs they could have written together as much as he regrets not being the one to see the excitement in Brendon’s fingers when they trip over the keys.

4\. Brendon’s heart is in his eyes, has been since they were in high school, and Ryan knows what he’s saying every single time they look at each other. He’s never been ready to act on it, worried for the band and the rumors and maybe himself, a little, because Brendon’s heart is in his eyes but Ryan takes better care of his than that. It was a slap in the face and he knew it, but he said it anyway; “This is a song about love, and you’re singing it like you have no idea what love is.” Jon and Spencer stayed resolutely silent, and Brendon dropped his eyes, not starting a fight like he had the last five hundred times Ryan told him off for something, and waited for Spencer to count them in again.

5\. Their first kiss is at the cabin, on the porch watching the sun set. Or rather, Ryan had been watching the sun set, Brendon had just been bored and keeping him company. That’s what Ryan had told himself, anyway, but when Brendon tilted his head and said his name, Ryan had already known what was coming, the feel of their lips meeting and Brendon’s hand fluttering careful and uncertain over his arm. He’s never regretted that, and he never will. He doesn’t regret the choice he made afterwards, either. What he does regret is the look on Brendon’s face when he came bounding out of his room the next morning, grinning and bouncing and head-over-heels in fucking love, and Ryan turned his head when Brendon tried to kiss him and said without inflection, “I love Keltie.”


	44. Snow Day & Winter Wonderland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the [snowed in meme](http://adellyna.livejournal.com/353193.html); Frank & Gerard, plus niece, rated a nice safe G.

Snow Day

Alicia has one simple rule when it comes to Frank and Gerard babysitting her daughter – it always has to be the two of them together. Her argument is that if she leaves one of them alone, she’ll either come home to Frank and a house full of destroyed furniture, or Gerard and a kid who hasn’t eaten for two days because they were engrossed in finger painting. Together, she claims, they balance each other out.

Currently, Gerard is chasing Clarabelle trying to get her shoes on while Frank packs her lunch to take to school, one eye on the weather channel and the other on the sandwich he’s making. Mikey and Alicia just flew to Spain for a week, taking the first vacation they’ve really had since Clara was born, leaving Gerard and Frank playing house and being doting uncles.

Clara shrieks as she runs past, chanting, “No shoes no shoes,” until Gerard scoops her up and tickles her until she can’t breathe.

“Green shoes,” Gerard argues, depositing her on the couch and tucking her tiny feet into the baby Crocs she likes best. “They match the frogs on your shirt, look.”

Clara looks up at him, blinks a few times, and reaches up to touch her hair. Frank knows what she’s going to say even before she says it. So, apparently, does Gerard.

“Frog ponytails,” he says, setting her back on her feet. “Right. Go get them, hurry, the bus will be here soon.”

Clara runs to her room and Frank licks peanut butter off the knife, catching Gerard’s eye. “Oh hey,” he says. “Don’t forget she likes…”

“Peanut butter on both sides of the bread,” Frank finishes, twirling his knife with a flourish. “I’ve got it covered. We won’t have any gross squishy jelly sides today.”

Gerard smiles and drops his head back against the back of the couch. “Wouldn’t want that.”

“You should probably have put boots on her,” Frank comments, seeing the satellite radar picture fill the screen once more. “It looks like it’s already snowing pretty hard, her socks will get wet.”

Gerard grimaces at the screen. “Snicker doodle,” he says, one of the oaths he’s adopted since Alicia vetoed ‘goddamn shit-eating motherfucker’ and all related expletives. Frank smirks and Gerard turns to call down the hall, “Tinkerbell! Come on, froggy time!”

“Her pink ones are in the closet, I think,” Frank says absently, and then curses as he knicks himself with the jelly knife. “F—Frappuccino,” he edits hastily, just as Clara runs back in and holds her hair rubber bands out solemnly for Gerard to take.

He gets the ponytails mostly straight, only a little lopsided with a few flyaways that he tucks behind her ears. “This is really a job for your Godfrank,” he mutters, but spins her around anyway and lets her go. “Got your stuff? All ready for the bus?”

Clara nods and makes a run for her backpack, but Frank holds up an arm to catch her as she darts by, pulling his finger out of his mouth to make sure it’s stopped bleeding. “Not so fast,” he says, gesturing to the television. “Looks like someone has a snow day.”

“Really?” Clara asks, and runs to the window to check for herself, hopping onto the ottoman so she can see outside. Gerard raises the blinds for her and holds her steady with a hand on her back, both of them peering out into the swirling white chaos outside.

Frank slaps the sandwich together for later and wipes down the counter. “District’s closed,” he says for Gerard’s benefit. “Do you want to pull out some board games or something?”

Gerard picks Clara up and settles her on his hip. They look almost nothing alike; Clara's inherited her mother’s features, although the way she looks at them solemnly from behind her glasses is all Mikey. “What do you say, kiddo?” Gerard asks. “You want to play some games?”

Clara takes a few seconds to mull it over. “I can’t go to school at all?” she asks, and when Gerard tilts his head, she continues, “We were gonna make paper snowflakes today.”

Gerard smiles and sets her down. “I think we can make some pretty awesome snowflakes, the three of us,” he says, glancing up at Frank for confirmation. “Do you want to?”

“Heck yeah,” Frank seconds, collecting scissors from the drawer on his way to join them, pulling out a chair so Clara can clamber up to sit at the table. “Your Uncle Gee and I are paper snowflake pros.”

Clara looks skeptical, but like she’s willing to let them make the attempt. She’s definitely Mikey’s daughter. “Okay.”

“And you know what the best part of a snow day is?” Frank says, while Gerard hunts for paper in Alicia’s desk. “Hot cocoa.”

At the mention of hot cocoa, Clara is immediately mollified. “With marshmallows?” she asks.

Frank will have to check the cupboards, but he’s pretty sure that in this household, marshmallows are a relatively safe bet. “Absolutely.”

Gerard spreads out paper and a variety of other art supplies, including glue sticks and two tubes of glitter. Frank is totally ready to lay this paper snowflake shit down.

“Did mommy and daddy have snow days?” Clara asks, drawing a vaguely recognizable snowflake-shape in purple crayon on a piece of paper while Gerard folds another sheet into triangles for her.

“They sure did,” Gerard answers, and Frank laughs, remembering the announcement Alicia made three weeks into February.

He reaches out and tweaks Clara’s nose, grinning. “Well yeah,” he teases, winking at Gerard. “How do you think they made you?”

  


Winter Wonderland

“Crack!” Clara yells, and Gerard lifts his arm automatically, redistributing his weight in preparation for the running leap he knows is sure to follow. On the other side of Clara, Frank does the same thing, and she grips their hands tight as she jumps and swings across the rift in the pavement.

“Do you think they still have the ice sculptures up?” Frank asks, looking across at the neat line of painted shops, all decked out in glittering holiday lights. “I wanted to see those.”

“I think so,” Gerard answers, using the hand not clutching Clara’s snowflake-mittened hand to scratch the side of his nose. “They won’t have melted yet, right? This is only the second weekend.”

“Horses!” Clara announces, and Gerard is confused for a moment about whether that means running, jumping, or some other activity involving the dislocation of his arm, but then he sees the slow-revolving carousel and one side of his mouth tugs up.

“You want to ride?” he asks. She nods, and he stops at the kiosk for tickets while Frank reminds Clara to say please and thank you. Gerard passes over a ticket for Frank and gets an eyebrow cocked in return.

“Carousel?” Frank asks, but he takes the ticket.

There’s no way Gerard is letting Clara on a giant turntable where she’ll be out of his sight half the time without someone he trusts beside her. “I thought we could all go,” he says, and Frank grins.

The line isn’t too long; it’s not freezing outside, and still early in the holiday season for trips to theme parks. Clara has to walk around the carousel nearly twice before she decides which horse she wants; a mane-tossing stallion which she explains to them is a palomino and promptly names Gregory.

“Gregory?” Frank asks, hand on the pole while Gerard hoists Clara up into the saddle. She gathers up the reins and sits tall, looking every inch the professional rider.

“Gregory the Great,” Clara agrees. “He’s very fierce and wins a lot of races. What are you going to name yours?”

“Mine?” Frank asks, and then glances over his shoulder at the spirited black carousel horse next to Clara’s. “Am I riding?”

“We’re racing,” Clara informs him, kicking her heels at the saddle straps since her legs are too short to reach the stirrups. “Hurry up, it’s going to start soon.”

Frank looks bemused, but he grabs the pole and swings his leg over, settling into the saddle. “All right,” he agrees, “but I’ll have you know I was a great carousel jockey in my day. And Goblin here is a famous champion.”

“Not as famous as Gregory,” Clara defends loyally. Gerard braces himself against the painted horse, one hand on the pole and the other on Clara’s leg, just in case, as the carousel creaks to life.

“And they’re off!” Gerard calls, keeping careful hold of Clara as she bounces in her saddle. Frank is hunched over his mount’s neck, casting worried glances over at Clara interspersed with triumphant taunts. Gerard tries to keep up a commentary, but there’s no real change of position on a carousel; Clara is in the lead for two seconds, then Frank, then Clara again.

Clara isn’t deterred in the slightest, whispering encouragements to her mount and slapping her reins confidently against the horse’s wooden neck. They go around and around, and when the ride finally slows to a halt, it’s Clara by a nose.

“Next time,” Frank vows, sliding off of his horse. “I demand a rematch.”

Clara shakes his hand solemnly, as befits a gracious winner, and then turns to Gerard and says, “Again.” When Frank clears his throat, she adds hopefully, “Please.”

“I think we can manage that,” Gerard says, holding out his arms to help her down. “Do you want to go again right now, or later?”

“Right now,” Clara says immediately, tugging him towards the ride’s exit as soon as she’s back on her feet. Frank laughs and shakes his head, trailing behind them.

“She’s Mikey’s,” Gerard reminds him, ripping off another ticket for Frank as they circle around to get in line again. “If there was a unicorn on this thing, she’d be on it.”

They barely have to wait before it’s their turn again, but this time someone else gets to Gregory first, a freckled boy kicking in his stirrups and yelling to his friends riding ahead. Gerard recognizes the warning signs of a tantrum rapidly approaching, and takes steps quickly to avert. “Gregory the Great is only for the less experienced riders,” he improvises. “You’re a seasoned jockey now, you’ve earned a new horse.”

Clara’s lip is trembling. “But I don’t _want_ a new one,” she pleads, and Gerard is five seconds away from bribing the other kid to take a different mount when Frank intervenes.

“You won’t be able to race me, then,” he says, patting the neck of the horse they’re standing beside. “Because I’m riding Hoboken, and he’s the fastest in all the land.”

Thankfully, Clara rises to the challenge. “He is not,” she declares, and turns to make friends with Hoboken’s nearest neighbor. There’s one more wistful look at Gregory, but when Gerard points out how green the jewels are in the new horse’s eyes, she agrees and climbs aboard.

This time Frank is the victor, in spite of his attempt to fall behind by leaning backwards in the saddle. “We’ll have to go best of three,” he decides, shaking Clara’s hand again to show that there are no hard feelings. “Later, though. We still have to ride the candy train.”

While the carousel is obviously still tempting, Clara is willing to be swayed by the novelty of something as interesting as a candy train. It’s for children only, but since it only goes in a curving loop around an open clearing, Gerard is willing to let her ride alone. He still keeps his eyes on her, though. He’s seen abduction documentaries, and no child-molesting pervert is getting hold of his niece, not if Gerard has anything to say about it.

“What a lovely little girl,” the middle-aged woman next to him comments, as the train goes by and Clara waves to him from her car.

Gerard waves back, only giving the woman half of his attention, trying to be polite without looking away. “Yeah, she is,” he says, with a touch of pride in his voice. “She’s my…”

“Hey,” Frank says, squeezing up next to him. “I found a map. We’re in the ride area, but if we go towards the section with the ice sculptures we can also stop by the petting zoo. They have reindeer, do you think she’d like that?”

Gerard glances away from Clara and the train for long enough to see the woman’s expression change. “Oh,” she says, in a different tone of voice, carefully hesitant. “She’s both of yours?”

Frank frowns a little, looking thrown off at being addressed by a complete stranger who isn’t asking for his autograph. “We’re…” he begins, and Gerard cuts in before he can finish.

“Alternative parenting,” he finishes, which isn’t a lie, exactly. They’re watching her, that’s kind of like parenting. Anyway, he’s her uncle, and Frank is her godfather. It’s close enough.

“I see.” The smile on the woman’s face couldn’t be more pasted-on if Gerard had applied glue. “Well that’s…nice.”

“We think so,” Gerard says firmly, offering a pleasant smile. He reaches out to take Frank’s hand, and turns pointedly back towards the train to wave at Clara as she goes past.

He can feel Frank laughing silently beside him as the woman blinks and moves away, closer to the other end of the fence. “Asshole,” Frank says affectionately. “You could warn me.”

“Sorry,” Gerard sighs, rubbing at his nose to ease the nicotine ache he can feel building there. “It just pissed me off.”

“It’s okay,” Frank says, leaning against the fence and smiling up at him. “I love your righteous activist fury.”

There are droplets of water caught in Frank’s eyelashes, glistening and reflecting the color of his irises. Gerard blinks, glancing up, and asks, “Is it snowing?”

“Huh?” Frank looks up as well, holding up one hand clad in a fingerless glove to test. “I guess, a little, yeah. We’ll still be okay, though, it’s nothing major.”

The train pulls into the station with a final whistle, and Clara hops out of the car, tripping over her snow boots as she runs towards the exit. “Godfrank!” she yells, pointing at something out of their sight. “Uncle Gee!”

Frank consults his map. “She’s spotted the elf toymaker’s shop,” he reports as they head over to the exit gate. “What do you want to bet they have tree ornaments that look like carousel horses?”

Gerard tugs the collar of his coat tighter around his neck and exhales a cloud of white, lips twitching up into a smile. “Onward ho.”


	45. Cat and Mouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [The Bandom Mistletoe Meme](), Gabe/William, Spencer/Ryan, Spencer/Gabe.

“Look out,” Jon says as soon as Spencer walks in the door, arms loaded down with gifts and Ryan at his heels, “Gabe’s got mistletoe.” He gives Spencer a hug and then moves on to Ryan, taking some of their packages so they’re not in imminent danger of dropping things.

“What else is new?” Ryan asks rhetorically, helping Spencer sort out the Secret Santa gifts from the cookies Spencer’s mom made for the party.

Brendon pops up out of nowhere, holly tucked behind his ear and drowning in one of Jon’s holiday sweaters. He does a comic double-take and peers under the fur-lined hood of Ryan’s parka. “Is that you in there, Ross? I thought it was the yeti, or maybe someone from an arctic observation outpost.”

“Fuck you,” Ryan answers from within his cocoon of fuzzy scarves and winter outerwear. “Chicago is freezing.”

“He’s a desert flower,” Spencer explains, shedding his own layers before he flushes in the dry heat of the room. “Is there a table for food? We brought cookies.”

“No shit, really?” comes from somewhere behind them, and Spencer turns around to see Gabe holding a plastic cup of holiday punch. Spencer checks for mistletoe, minding Jon’s warning, but the coast looks clear. Gabe is more interested in the cookies. “Holy shit, these have little sprinkles, did you make these?”

“My mom,” Spencer answers, taking the saran wrap off of the platter so Gabe can get at them.

Gabe takes three, shoves one into his mouth and says, “Fucking awesome, I love your mom,” around a mouthful of cookie-crumble.

Jon laughs and says, “Me too,” and Spencer gives him a look that says _watch it, Walker_ before unwrapping the platter with Jon’s favorite peanut butter puffs.

“Yo, William,” Gabe calls, and gets a mildly-interested blink from the couch, where William has stretched out with his feet in Ryland’s lap, a wreath of ivy tangled in his hair that looks like it came from the garland wrapped around the banister.

“I’ve got cookies,” Gabe says, holding one over the back of the couch, and then a sprig of mistletoe appears in his hand out of nowhere, waving over William’s head. “Kiss first, though, I don’t want to lick around the crumbs.”

William laughs and tilts his head back, face upturned and lips puckered. Spencer watches them kiss and thinks it’s a little strange, how comfortable they are with it, how it’s erotic and familiar at the same time, the way Gabe’s hand goes automatically to cradle William’s jaw and the fact that William’s still smiling when they part.

He’s still thinking about it when Gabe looks up and catches him watching, handing over the promised cookie while a grin spreads over his face. “Want a cookie, Smith?” he asks, with a leer that might be a little creepy if it wasn’t, well, Gabe.

“I brought them,” Spencer points out, eyebrows slightly lifted. He cocks his hip without even thinking about it, arms crossed. Ryan snorts beside him, unwinding the thick scarf from around his neck so Jon can take it up to the bedroom with their coats.

His posture might be more challenging than is really necessary, but Gabe matches it, strutting over with a gleam in his eyes. “Want something else, then?” he asks, and Spencer’s chin comes up; he doesn’t mean it to be defiant, exactly, but Gabe’s taller than he is, it’s a natural reaction.

“Something you’ve got?” he asks, with the slightest trace of scorn that isn’t genuine, really, it’s all part of the game. Gabe winks at him and raises his arm, dangling the little branch over Spencer’s head.

Spencer smiles at him, then reaches out without looking and tugs Ryan sideways. Ryan squawks a little in surprise, but then takes in Gabe, Spencer, and the hovering mistletoe, and his expression smoothes immediately into something bland and smug.

Spencer fucking loves having Ryan for a best friend.

Gabe’s eyebrows have climbed towards the mop of curls on his head. “Woah, are you kidding me?” he asks, and for answer Spencer turns, tilts Ryan’s head with a hand on his cheek, and presses their lips together.

Ryan’s straight, but he’s also not a dick, and Spencer gives thanks once again as Ryan not only goes along with it, but also rests a hand on Spencer’s hip to keep them both steady. They nuzzle for a bit, mouths moving soft and slow against each other, and then Ryan’s lips part and he licks, just enough to wet Spencer’s lips before he open his mouth again and flicks his tongue out to catch Ryan’s.

Someone makes a noise nearby; possibly Gabe, because Spencer knows his band well enough to know that Jon is grinning and Brendon is staring, and Spencer purrs a little into Ryan’s mouth and presses closer so their chests are touching. Ryan teases him with kitten-licks across his lips, and Spencer slowly slides the hand cradling Ryan’s face down his neck to skim over his chest.

They keep kissing for a while, tongues curling together and twining, and then Spencer pulls Ryan’s tongue into his mouth and sucks, and Ryan obligingly moans. It’s a good act, but Spencer has to stop now or he’s going to start laughing, and that would ruin the show. He puts on every sign of reluctance, relaxing the kiss until they’ve both got their tongues back, and then presses one final peck to Ryan’s lips and lets go.

Gabe looks as if he’s about to drag one or both of them into the nearest room and ravish them right in the middle of the party. Spencer smiles sweetly and takes the last forgotten cookie out of his hand. “Thanks,” he says, and licks the sprinkles off the top.

He turns to get a cup of punch from the kitchen, letting his center of balance fall to his hips, and Jon goes with him, silently shaking with laughter.

“He’s not going to leave you alone all night now,” Jon says, amusement lacing his voice and making his lips twitch.

Spencer fills two cups, one for him and one for Ryan, and grabs napkins from the stack on the counter. “I know,” he replies rather smugly, and Jon laughs.

“Thanks, honey,” Ryan deadpans when Spencer hands him the second cup. Spencer bumps their hips together and sends a warning look towards Brendon, who’s eyeing him with a worryingly speculative glint in his eyes.

“I’m not making out with you,” Spencer says before Brendon can do more than open his mouth to speak, and Brendon shuts it again, looking disappointed. Spencer hides a smirk behind his cup and goes to see who’s hanging out in the other room, taking a cookie with him because Jon is well on his way to eating all of the peanut butter puffs.

He’s in the hallway when Gabe corners him, predatory and friendly at the same time, maneuvering him easily so Spencer is trapped with his back to the wall. He has the little sprig in his hand, twirling it cheerfully, and braces himself with one hand on the wall beside Spencer’s head, smiling.

Spencer has his hands full of punch and cookies, so he just leans back against the wall and waits.

Gabe dangles the mistletoe over his head and says conversationally, “There’s no one to save you now, Smith.” His eyes are gleaming again, grin wide and cocky.

Spencer tilts his head back, smiling, and waits to be kissed.


	46. Stage Fright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [The Bandom Goes Down](http://disarm-d.livejournal.com/52976.html) meme, Mikey/Frank.

“It’s a blowjob, how hard can it be?” Frank asked rhetorically. Mikey guessed this was Frank’s idea of reassurance. It wasn’t actually all that reassuring.

“You don’t have to…” Mikey said, for what had to be the sixteenth time since they’d started this, crammed together all knees and pointy elbows into Mikey’s bunk.

Frank scowled at him. Mikey took the hint and shut up. It’s not like he was going to complain about getting a blowjob, he was just reasonably wary about the experience. The way Frank had narrowed his eyes at Mikey’s cock was both incredibly hot and slightly terrifying.

“It’s fine,” Frank declared, tucking his hair behind his ear to get it out of the way. To Mikey’s cock, he announced, “You’re going down, motherfucker.”

Mikey didn’t really want to say it, but he couldn’t quite help himself, either. “Actually, I think you’re…”

Frank bared his teeth. Mikey shut up again.

“Right,” Frank said, and Mikey recognized the pep talk he gave himself before harrowing experiences like killing spiders or trying to make peanut butter and banana smoothies in the blender. “Right, this is easy. Suck and swallow.”

“Like point and shoot,” Mikey said helpfully. Well, maybe not exactly. His cock wasn’t a camera. If it was, he would be able to do shit like set the timer and have it go off on its own. He thought that might help in this situation. It would be pretty cool, anyway.

Frank muttered something under his breath, probably part two of the pep talk. This was the part usually followed by a blood-curdling war cry, an attack on the eight-legged creature or appliance in question, and a lot of triumphant shouting involving the words, “Eat shit, motherfucker!”

Sometimes Frank reminded Mikey a little too much of Gerard. He was trying very hard not to think about that right now.

“You could just…” Mikey began, to distract himself from the Gerard thing.

Frank gave Mikey a dangerous look, breaking off his staring contest with Mikey’s cock. For the record, Mikey’s cock looked like it had been winning up until that point anyway. “Shut the fuck up, I’ve got this,” Frank declared.

The look in his eyes was a little vehement, even for Frank. Mikey started edging backwards. “Okay…” he said uncertainly. He wasn’t about to start arguing. Frank’s teeth were too close to certain areas, and everyone knew he was a biter.

Frank’s expression cleared a bit, softened. “Sorry,” he said. “No really, I’m ready now. It’s just sucking cock, people do it all the time. It’s not like you can do it _wrong,_ right?”

Mikey personally had his doubts about that. Most of them involved flashes of Frank’s aforementioned teeth. “Er,” he said.

“For fuck’s sake,” Gerard’s voice interrupted from the other side of the closed curtain. “It’s not rocket science, just fucking put it in your mouth and stop talking about it!”

Mikey was almost completely sure that his heart had stopped beating, at the same moment the air froze in his lungs and rendered them incapable of working properly.

Frank blinked, then shifted a little and giggled nervously. “Right,” he said. “I’ll just, um…”

Mikey looked down at his instantly-wilted cock, then back up at Frank. “Don’t worry,” he said resignedly. “I don’t think you need to worry about it anymore.”


	47. Unwind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Panic! gen

After the show, there’s the usual pile-up in the lounge to get some food and watch a movie, unwind from the high of thousands of voices screaming over the thrum of Jon’s bass and the kick of Spencer’s drums. Ryan is the first to settle, curled up with a bag of granola and hoarding all of the pillows on the couch to cushion his bony elbows and knees. Jon joins him a minute later, beer already cracked open and gummi worms secured, taking the other corner so Spencer has to squish between them.

Brendon throws himself at their feet, still toweling off, nudging through the DVDs with his toes. “Batman?” he suggests, and none of them have a better idea, so in it goes.

“Stop using your feet, you freak,” Ryan says when Brendon has successfully extracted the DVD and is pushing the buttons to open the player. Brendon sticks his tongue out and Ryan throws a pillow at him, which is immediately confiscated.

“Thanks,” Brendon beams, getting comfortable on the worn carpet, just as Jon says, “Shhh, previews.”

They’ve seen this a hundred times already, but Spencer’s quiet anyway, curling and uncurling his right hand. His joints are sore, stiff from gripping his sticks for an hour. Brendon twists around to say something to Ryan and catches him at it, tugging until Spencer is bent awkwardly over with his hand balanced on Brendon’s knees. Brendon starts rubbing, a good strong massage from the palm of his hand out towards his fingers, and Spencer groans.

“Shh,” Brendon teases, eyes dancing behind his glasses. “Previews.”

The muscles give way one by one, loosening until Spencer’s hand is tingling, warm and relaxed, and then Brendon carefully gives Spencer his hand back and starts on the other one. Spencer’s toes curl a little in bliss.

Ryan laughs at him when Spencer takes advantage of Ryan’s cushioning to use him as a pillow, opening his mouth as an afterthought for Jon to feed him a gummi worm. “You’re so spoiled,” Ryan tells him, smiling softly, and Brendon tips his head back to grin up at them, clever fingers still digging into Spencer’s palm, soft damp hair tickling his bare feet.

Spencer smiles at the television and steals another one of Jon’s gummi worms. “I know.”


	48. Kittenish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Panic! gen

“Here, kitty kitty,” Ryan called, kneeling down beside the hole where the siding came away from the wall in the kitchen, scratching his fingernails against the floor.

“Dude, it’s not going to work,” Brendon said over his shoulder, peering into the darkness and shining a mini-flashlight into the narrow space.

“I’m the one with a pet,” Ryan argued, scratching again and attempting a summoning cluck. “Here, kitty.”

“You have a dog.” Brendon wriggle-nudged Ryan out of the way and dangled a jingle-bell on a leather thong in a way that he probably assumed was alluring to felines. “My aunt has cats, I rescue them all the time.”

“I don’t think he wants to be rescued,” Ryan said dubiously, looking for any sign of gleaming kitten-eyes inside the wall. “Maybe we should just wait until he gets hungry, put out some milk or something.”

“Dude, we lost Jon’s cat. He’s going to back with Spencer in, like, any minute now.” Brendon gave the jingle bell one last shake and sat back, deflated. “We’re the worst pet-sitters ever.”

“Shut up. Here, move.” Ryan pushed Brendon away from the wall and wriggled down until he was at the same height as the hole, reaching inside and feeling around for a tiny ball of fur.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Brendon asked. “There could be rabid mice in there.”

Ryan rolled his eyes and huffed, fingertips finding a lot of dust bunnies but not one cat. “Then we’d better get the kitten out, dumbass,” he said, knocking his shoulder against the wall as he squirmed, trying to reach further. “The mice are probably bigger than he is.”

“Here, move it, Ross, shove over.” Brendon bumped Ryan insistently with his knee, impatient while Ryan awkwardly extracted his arm from the wall. It came away covered in dust and grime, and both of them paused for a moment to stare.

“Ew.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, here,” Brendon announced, and Ryan finally noticed Dylan hanging mostly-quiescent in his arms, looking bored. “I think we should let Dylan get him out.”

Ryan stared. “How the fuck is a cat going to get another cat out of a wall?” he asked finally, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

Brendon shook Dylan gently in demonstration. Dylan took a halfhearted swipe at the air with his paw, which Brendon ignored. “He can call him. Or we can send Dylan in after him.” He started coaxing Dylan into the tiny hole, and Ryan reached out to snatch the cat back before they lost them both.

“He’s never going to fit in there. Even if he did, we’d never get him out again, he hasn’t got room to turn around.”

“Cats are sneaky, they can fit into small spaces,” Brendon argued, tugging Dylan back. “He can chase Clover out.”

“He’s not going to…shit,” Ryan said, dropping his hold on Dylan, who was beginning to squirm in protest at the tug-of-war.

Brendon froze as well, at the sound of the door opening and familiar voices filling the room. “We could hide,” he whispered, but he didn’t sound hopeful. Ryan made a noise that he felt was an appropriate response to that suggestion.

“Hey guys,” Jon said, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen. He tilted his head curiously, taking in the two of them, Ryan’s dirt-covered arm, and Dylan meowing plaintively to be set free. “What’s going on?”

Ryan opened his mouth to answer before Brendon could, but was interrupted by the pitter-patter of tiny kitten feet. A fluffy ball of fur tumbled into sight from the direction of the hallway, and was scooped up by Spencer, who had materialized behind Jon and was looking at them with equal interest. Spencer sat Clover up on his shoulder and kept one hand there to steady him.

Clover looked at them with round blue eyes and blinked, once.

“Well shit,” Ryan said involuntarily. Brendon’s elbow landed between his ribs a second later.

“Nothing,” Brendon said belatedly. “We’re cleaning.” Jon looked confused, so Brendon elaborated lamely, “Dylan is helping.”

“Uh-huh,” Jon said, smiling like he thought he probably didn’t want to know anyway, and took Spencer’s coat to hang up with his own.

“I thought you said you were sure he went in there,” Ryan hissed, while Brendon’s eyes immediately widened into his most patently innocent look.

Spencer shifted in the doorway, narrowed eyes darting between them both, hip cocked and kitten on his shoulder. “You guys lost the cat in the wall, didn’t you?” he asked, and Brendon’s eyes got even wider.

Ryan huffed and shook the dust bunnies off his sleeve. “Apparently not.”

Spencer started laughing, which was the cue for Brendon to start pouting. “We were worried,” he protested. Spencer shook his head and set Clover back down on the carpet, where he promptly scampered off after Jon.

“You’re an idiot,” Ryan said somberly.

“Shut the fuck up, Ross.”


	49. The best medicine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because the first thing I thought upon hearing that Bob had injured himself again was, inexplicably, 'Spencer's going to be pissed.'

“You broke your fucking _wrist?_ ”

“…Spence,” Bob says, instead of the ‘keep the change’ he’d been intending to tell the delivery guy when he’d opened the door. Spencer has his arms crossed and eyes narrowed. Bob is debating how much pain he would inevitably end up in if he shut the door again and tried to pretend he wasn’t home.

“I had to hear about it from Ryan, you fucking asshole,” Spencer continues, and Bob is still considering the door thing when Spencer pushes past him and the window of opportunity is lost.

“It’s not a big deal,” he says instead, going into the calm-and-placate mode he always uses when Gerard’s voice starts rising in pitch. “I would have called if it was.”

“Is anyone even staying with you?” Spencer asks, taking in the state of Bob’s room, littered with take-out boxes and empty beer cans. The television’s on and all of the pillows are on the couch, where Bob has mostly been lounging since the doctor told him to rest. It’s not like Spencer hasn’t seen him in his home environment, but usually Bob at least makes an effort.

“They’re still on tour,” Bob reminds him, shutting the door and reluctantly turning to face Spencer. He still doesn’t look happy; Bob is currently getting the full force of the Hips.

“Why am I the one always getting calls about how my boyfriend has ended up in the hospital again?” Spencer asks, and Bob doesn’t answer because it’s obviously rhetorical, since Spencer is already forging ahead. “And for shitty reasons, too. You broke your wrist playing a show?”

“Not like that,” Bob argues. He’s starting to get warm, heated from the arguing. He fumbles with the zipper of his hoodie and tugs it off over his head, only to get caught on his cast, from which he can’t easily extricate himself without Spencer noticing. Shit.

“When you get better, I’m fucking giving you drumming lessons,” Spencer grumbles, which is so ridiculous that Bob actually cracks a smile. Spencer does, too, albeit reluctantly, the shimmering edge of his anger giving way almost visibly.

“Hey,” Bob says, but Spencer apparently isn’t done yet, determined to get his lecture out before Bob melts him down and he forgets. Bob is familiar with this tactic from many years with his mother, but that’s not something he’s ever going to share with Spencer.

“Like I needed Brendon to have another excuse to make fun of me for dating you,” Spencer huffs, and then freezes, eyes on the couch. “Have you been _practicing?_ ”

Bob edges sideways to get between Spencer and the incriminating set of drumsticks on the coffee table, but the damage has been done. “One hand only,” he promises, which is a lie, but whatever. He’s been resting the wrist. Mostly.

“Oh, for…” Spencer says exasperatedly, tugging Bob’s hoodie over his cast and then leaning down to tie his shoelace for good measure.

“I don’t want you to take care of me,” Bob says quietly.

Spencer stands up and tugs his t-shirt down, fingers lingering. “Then stop getting yourself hurt,” he bitches. “You’re giving me worry-lines. I’m too young to look twenty-five.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bob grouses, but he takes a step closer and Spencer doesn’t go anywhere, the smile peeking out again. “Maybe Ray will stop giving me shit for robbing the cradle.”

“Doubt it,” Spencer returns, face upturned and eyes sparkling. “By then you’ll be gray and impotent.”

“I’ll show you impotent,” Bob growls, and Spencer grins when Bob tugs him forward, their hips bumping and grazing. He doesn’t actually have anything to show yet, but he doubts it will take long. He’s with Spencer.

“You’ll show me on your back,” Spencer retorts, his hand closing around Bob’s elbow above the cast. “I’m not taking you to the emergency room because you broke your wrist again fucking me.”

As frustrating as he knows it will be, that also sounds pretty fucking hot. “Sometimes,” Bob muses, “I forget why I’m with you.”

“Yeah well,” Spencer shrugs, already peeling off his shirt and starting on his pants so Bob doesn’t have to fight with the fly, “That’s why I come around to remind you.”


	50. Starlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabe/William

He’s lost Gabe, but he’s not particularly worried about it. He has the bag of Sun Chips tucked under his arm, and it only takes one questioning hiss before an arm drops out of the sky, palm up for him to clasp, and hauls him up onto the roof of the bus.

“What took you so long?” Gabe asks, teeth glinting white in the moonlight.

William tosses the bag between them, plastic scrunching by way of answer. “I brought provisions. They were guarding the pizza boxes and the Chex Mix, it was this or nothing.”

“I got beers,” Gabe contributes, holding the long-necked bottles up for William to see. “Only two, though. They’re going to starve us out before midnight.”

“We might be safe for a while,” William muses, accepting one of the beers and holding it steady while Gabe breaks the cap off for him. “They were starting in on Jon and Spencer when I left.”

Gabe shakes his head regretfully. “It won’t last. Walker’s close-mouthed and crafty, they’ll get tired of asking.”

William laughs, clinking his bottle against Gabe’s and taking the first swallow. “That’s our problem, you won’t shut up long enough for them to get bored.”

Gabe tugs him forward, breath beer-sweet on William’s neck. “Pot, kettle, drunken blabbermouth.” He smiles, and William smiles back, playfully pushing Gabe away when he laughs.

“It’s not my fault,” William complains, shaking his hair back and settling on his elbows beside Gabe, their legs dangling over the side. “I’m usually really good at I Never.”

Gabe laughs again, head tipping back, unfettered and free. “You think you’re good,” he corrects, stretching out on the bus roof, still warm from the memory of sunlight. “It’s why we always let you play.”

William opens his mouth to protest, but Gabe shakes his head, hand warm on the back of William’s neck. “Easy, relax, mi corazón.”

William lets it go, but the endearment doesn’t keep him from pouting, twisting the neck of the beer bottle between his fingers. When he steals a glance, Gabe is half-smirking like he knows exactly what William’s doing, which only makes him want to pout harder, but he shakes it off and sits up instead.

There’s a white sheet stretched out between the buses, left over from the movie they’d watched earlier, projected onto the makeshift screen. William holds his hand down low enough to catch the light from inside the bus, and curls his fingers into the shape of a rabbit, hopping across the white expanse.

Gabe snorts next to him. “Stealthy,” he comments, tilting his head sideways to watch. “It’s a good thing we’re not hiding or anything.”

“They’re going to find us eventually,” William points out philosophically, twitching one of his shadow-rabbit’s ears. “We always hide in the same places.”

Gabe watches for another few seconds, and then holds his hand down next to William’s. There’s a moment of very cool, sinuous snake charming, and then William’s rabbit becomes dinner.

“Hey,” he protests, shaking his hand free of Gabe’s. Gabe just grins, and his snake does a serpentine victory dance, twisting and wriggling. William tries to join in, but shrugs and drops his hand away when his fingers don’t cooperate. “I only know how to do the rabbit.”

Gabe’s hand contorts through a few more shapes before he stops as well, picking up his beer and stretching out on his back. “There should be a snake constellation,” he says, looking up at the stars, and William takes the invitation after a moment of just watching him, reclining to look up at the night sky.

“Maybe there is,” William says finally, although he can’t remember one. He scans the stars, looking for shapes, trying to string them together into a hooded cobra. The back of Gabe’s hand rests against his when he puts his beer down, comfortably touching.

“La luz de las estrellas,” Gabe says quietly, almost absently, raising one finger to trace a constellation of loops and lines. Then he adds, “Tus ojos,” and William turns his head to look, to see Gabe instead of trying to see whatever Gabe is seeing.

“I think, when they find us, you should only answer questions in Spanish,” William decides. He plays with his bottle, turning it in circles, knuckles brushing against the back of Gabe’s hand. “Then they’ll definitely get tired of asking.”

Gabe grins, white teeth against the black night sky, and says easily, “I give too much away.”

William starts to respond, but changes his mind. He keeps looking at Gabe for a minute, and then turns to look back at the stars, stretched over them like a sequined canopy. “I don’t mind,” he says finally.

He doesn’t see Gabe’s smile, but he can feel it. Gabe’s hand turns sideways, flat against the roof, palm up. William turns his palm down, and doesn’t let go.


	51. Unsuspecting Strangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabe/Spencer

Spencer Smith is pretty like a girl with amazing hips and painted-on jeans and fuck-me lips, right beneath fuck-you narrowed eyes. For Gabe, it’s pretty much lust at first sight.

He uses all the right moves, comes in slow and easy, plays nice with the best friend – who has equally narrowed eyes and watches anyone who comes too close to Spencer like a hawk – and acts casual. William isn’t fooled, but then, William never is, and he lets it go after the initial warning of, “Ross will skewer your balls and roast them like a kebab,” which Gabe acknowledges and then ignores.

The truth is, Spencer is sending out all the right signals, and since Gabe thinks it’s in Spencer’s best interests to keep Gabe’s balls attached to his dick, he figures Spencer will handle Ross. Which leaves Gabe handling Spencer. It’s all in the plan.

“Jailbait,” Butcher says, sunbathing near Gabe’s left elbow. “Worse than Mikey.”

Mikey had never been jailbait, though. Mikey had been older than his years, in spite of having an overprotective brother who really _would_ have staked Gabe’s balls if he knew what Gabe had done with his little brother.

“You’ll never get him away from the others anyway,” Carden puts in from his other side, hiding beneath sunblock, long sleeves and a rainbow umbrella. His tone is full of doubt, but he doesn’t see what Gabe sees, which is that Spencer’s eyes have stopped saying fuck-you and started saying come-hither. That’s not an invitation Gabe has any intention of resisting.

He makes his move – his real move – on a Sunday night, when nearly everyone is drinking and Ross is safely out of the way with Walker, keeping an eye on Urie. It’s all studied nonchalance, casual body language and an arm thrown around Spencer’s shoulders, a light but fraught-with-meaning, “’Sup, Smith?”

Spencer smiles, pink cheeks and soft lips, and Gabe knows he’s in.

*

The next morning, Spencer is back with his band and Gabe has no idea what’s just happened. He’s short on sleep, sore all over, and fuck, he’s even _limping._ Spencer isn’t jailbait, he’s a fucking playboy bunny with the stamina of a porn star. Gabe hasn’t been out-sexed since he was thirteen years old, and he counts that one as a fluke.

“What happened to you?” Conrad asks, shoving the box of corn flakes in Gabe’s general direction.

“Spencer fucking Smith,” Gabe says, still mostly in disbelief. “That kid is, like, the Energizer bunny.”

“Stop corrupting the innocent,” William chides behind him, sweet and tart, and steals the corn flakes.

“I’m serious,” Gabe insists. “He bent me like a fucking pretzel, you should see the bruises.”

“Yeah, of course he did,” Walker puts in, looking hungover as hell but still awake enough to give Gabe shit. “A seventeen year old fucked you through the mattress last night.”

It’s not exactly a badge of honor, but hey, Gabe believes in giving credit where it’s due. “Not just once, either. Like, five times.”

“Does Ross know about this?” Siska asks, while William eyes him skeptically and shakes his head. “Because I wouldn’t go spreading it around if I were you, in case he thinks you actually _did_ hook up with his boy.”

Gabe makes his eyes as big as possible – emote, they always believe the big eyes – and says, “No shit, I’m serious.”

“Sure you are,” Conrad assures him, half-smirking while he and Walker fight over his half-finished cup of coffee. There’s a lot of slapping and cursing involved, and finally the cup goes sideways and everyone leaps out of the way to avoid third-degree burns. Gabe stalks out during the commotion and lights up a cigarette in a patch of shade under the trees.

He freezes when he feels arms creep around him, and then there’s a sweet smile and pink cheeks and pouting lips close to his face, long hair drifting gracefully over slanting eyes. Spencer raises an eyebrow, the picture of virtuous innocence. “’Sup, Saporta?” he asks.

*

Four hours later, Gabe is panting like he’s run a marathon, every part of him is stretched and aching, and Spencer leans over to purr into his ear, “Again.”


	52. Sweet Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brendon/Ryan, kink

Life as a rock star occasionally means entire days with no chance for a break, weekends crammed full of interviews and publicity events and shows, nights spent driving to a new city so they can wake up at the crack of dawn to do it again. Brendon wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world, he really wouldn’t, but sometimes he wishes it would all slow down for just long enough that he could take a nap.

He doesn’t suffer insomnia often, but the show last night had been one of the good ones – not that they aren’t all good, but this one had been _better_ \- and he’d been nervous beforehand, singing the same lines over and over again, chugging Red Bull and dancing himself into a frenzy, and afterwards his body hadn’t been ready to come down. There’s always too much in his head, the next day’s schedule and the events of the past day, with so much happening that it feels like a week since he’d woken up that morning. He’d napped for a while, he thinks, somewhere between six- and seven-thirty in the morning, but then they’d reached their destination and it had been time to do it all again.

Tonight is a hotel night, blessedly, but while the soft pillows and fresh sheets are calling to him like a dreamy sonata, hotel night also means sex-with-Ryan night, and Brendon is not passing that up. Not even for an extra hour of sleep before their radio interview in the morning. They can make it fast and still good, he’s sure of it. He can be out like a light with six hours still to go before the wake-up call.

Normally, foreplay for them involves a blowjob, getting Ryan slicked up with saliva and flushed dark red beneath the condom, but tonight Brendon had gotten caught up in it, eyes slipping closed while he listened to the harsh panting of Ryan’s breath, and had nearly forgotten what they were doing.

Ryan pulls him off before Brendon realizes he’s stopped actively sucking, pushing him onto the sheets – cool, soft sheets – and muttering “You’re going to choke, idiot,” which Brendon fully intends to object to, only he maybe forgets.

Ryan is squirting lube onto his fingers, which means Brendon can just relax and enjoy for a while. He thinks about stealing a glance at the glowing clock on the bedside table, but Ryan had taken exception the last time he’d done that, and there had been bruises and minor limping in the morning, which Brendon doesn’t really want to encourage. He’s sure they have time, anyway. The blowjob can’t have taken more than fifteen minutes, probably not even ten, which gives him six hours and thirty-five minutes to sleep as of right now, thirty if he’s wrong about the blowjob and it took fifteen. Brendon wishes he could shut his brain off for a while.

His breath catches when Ryan starts pushing his cock in, but his body gives and stretches easily, so Ryan must have prepped him and Brendon just hadn’t been paying attention. He wraps his legs around Ryan’s waist, the two of them shifting together with the ease of practice, and exhales when Ryan thrusts. In, out. In, out. Like breathing, only not in the same rhythm. He wonders if he could time his breaths to Ryan’s thrusts, but thinks he would probably hyperventilate, and Ryan probably wouldn’t appreciate it if he passed out. It’s such a cool word, though. Hy-per- _ven_ -ti-late.

Ryan exhales hard, says, “Jesus, your ass,” and Brendon hums, settling into Ryan’s rhythm, trying to push back enough to help. There’s sweat collecting in the creases behind his knees, trickling sticky down the crack of his ass along with the lube. He’ll probably be gross after this, but the idea of dragging himself up after this to take a shower is laughable. He’ll just have to deal with it, shower in the morning. He’s pretty sure he worked that into his schedule, anyway. Six hours and twenty-five minutes, maybe fifteen if he needs to get up early and shower. He can’t remember now. Wake-up call at seven, interview at…eight-thirty? Nine?

Ryan is rocking against him, nice and easy, and the dull pleasure of it is soothing Brendon to sleep, easing the last of the tension from his muscles and shutting off the parts of his brain that still insist on working. He should have Ryan fuck him to sleep every night. He should have had Ryan fuck him to sleep _last_ night. That’s a good idea, actually. Maybe he’ll ask next time.

Ryan pauses, which Brendon barely notices except that then he changes the angle and thrusts in hard enough to jerk Brendon’s eyes open, wide and startled. Ryan is grinning, a little sharp in that way he has, like a laughing wolf. “You’re totally falling asleep on me, aren’t you?” he asks, and Brendon shakes his head, but he can’t say anything because Ryan is biting his earlobe and whispering, low and dirty. “I love when you’re like this. I’ve been wanting to fuck you all day.”

Brendon blinks slowly, trying to decipher what Ryan’s talking about, but then there’s another thrust and scrape that makes his toes curl, breath hissing out and head tilting back to let Ryan keep doing what he’s doing, because Christ. More. Brendon fucking loves hotel nights.

“I want to wake you up like this,” Ryan confides, and Brendon’s brain has to rush to catch up, because between the thrusting and the exhaustion, it’s pretty much melted down to pudding. Ryan keeps talking, though, so he just listens and doesn’t worry about responding. “I want to keep you up all night fucking you even when you’re so tired you can’t keep your eyes open. I want to spoon up behind you and wake you up with my cock in your ass, with you already ready to go because it’s only been a few hours since the last time, to feel you wake up and then pound the fuck out of you while you’re not even awake enough to fight me,” and it’s not like Brendon _would_ fight, but just the idea has him harder than he’s been all night, imagining it and fighting the gray haze still trying to creep in at the corners of his mind.

“I want to come in you before you even wake up,” Ryan is saying, and Brendon’s feet scrabble over Ryan’s back, looking for leverage, because he really wants to come now, and even with the dirty-talk, he needs friction. “I want you to look at me all dazed and confused, because you’ve just woken up and the first thing you really comprehend will be me eating my come out of your ass.”

Okay, forget friction. He doesn’t need that. This is fine. This, and that twisting thing Ryan is doing with his hips. Brendon makes a little hopeful noise that the hip thing will continue, although he can’t make it coherent enough to be an actual plea. Ryan does him one better, closing his fist around Brendon’s cock and jerking him off, fast and rough, and after Brendon comes in a daze he can still feel Ryan moving in him, working up to a finish.

“Jesus,” Ryan says softly again, and Brendon moans sleepy agreement. Hotel nights are awesome. Sex-with-Ryan is awesome. He doesn’t need sleep, honestly. He could totally go again. Right now, even.

Ryan laughs near his ear, quiet and tickling. “Go to sleep,” Ryan murmurs, arms around Brendon just the way he likes, cuddled and protected. “I’ll wake you up in the morning.”

Brendon’s brain gives a flicker of interest at that, like there’s something he’s supposed to remember about the morning, about Ryan and the morning, but he’s already forgotten even before the thought is fully formed, and his eyes are stuck closed, so perfectly that he can’t even pry them open to check the clock. It’s okay, Ryan will wake him up. Ryan will…


	53. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> William/Butcher, written for disarm_d's [Learn to Appreciate Other People's Favorite Pairings Day](http://disarm-d.livejournal.com/32673.html).

Butcher is so used to William unexpectedly landing on him that he doesn’t even look up this time when it happens, just waits for a few seconds before tugging the magazine he’d been reading free of William’s body. The pages are crushed and crumpled, but it’s not like he buys this one for the pictures, and he thinks it’s probably Siska’s anyway. Most of the actual music scene magazines are.

William is dead weight on top of him, not moving even after five minutes and the end of the article. He’d been laughing it up with their sponsors earlier, smiling eyes and free-flowing drinks, their hands all over him in ways that were both completely socially acceptable and incredibly dirty. There’s a reason Butcher had left when he did, to come back here and unwind. He knows William doesn’t have the same options, or doesn’t feel like he does. That doesn’t necessarily make it any easier.

He reads two more articles before William so much as twitches, and then it’s more of a restless shift that doesn’t actually take him anywhere, just flattens the magazine again. Butcher rescues the glossy pages with a couple of careful tugs and reaches up to pet William’s hair. The resulting sound isn’t a word so much as it is a noise, muffled into Butcher’s shirt so close he can feel William’s breath hot and damp through the fabric.

If they hadn’t been through this before, so many times before, he’d say something now, about how tired William is and the way they both know what the greasy studio execs wants from him. Half the time, Butcher isn’t even certain that William isn’t giving it to them, if not with his body then with his words and his eyes, the promises he makes but doesn’t follow up on. Probably.

It’s easy to doubt, but then he’ll be lounging here, or somewhere like it, reading a magazine or listening to music, and William will come back and plaster himself across Butcher like he needs to soak something up from his skin in order to go on. He doesn’t say that he hates the way they touch him or the way the girls look at him like they own him, doesn’t say anything about what they are together, the part that no one else knows. He doesn’t ask for reassurance, he just takes it with the weight of his body and the curl of his limbs, tangling them closer together.

William rolls a little towards him and Butcher shifts the magazine to his other hand so that he can hook an arm around William, keeping him in place and secure. William doesn’t say anything about how he wants Butcher to be the only one touching him, or that there’s only one person he wants to touch in turn.

The best part about what they have is that he never needs to say anything at all.


	54. Five Kisses (specifically, four kisses that really didn't count and one that really did)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spencer/Brendon. For 's [kissing meme](http://foxxcub.livejournal.com/393765.html) and adellyna, reposted because I try to keep track of things.

1.

“Birthday kisses!” Brendon announces, flinging himself into Spencer’s personal space before he’s even scrubbed the sleep-gunk from his eyes. Spencer staggers backwards and raises a hand to fend him off, flailing weakly.

“Come on, what…?” is as far as he gets before Brendon’s lips are smashed against his. Spencer makes a sound like “mmph” and hears Jon laughing somewhere over Brendon’s shoulder.

“Everyone gets a turn,” Brendon declares, shoving Spencer in the direction of a less-than-amused Ryan, who is curled protectively around his coffee cup. Spencer knows the feeling.

“I am not kissing Spencer,” Ryan says. It’s his most threatening tone, which Brendon may or may not have been around for long enough to recognize. Jon doesn’t, he’s still chuckling.

“Laugh it up, Walker,” Spencer hisses, tugging at his pajama pants and making a beeline for the coffee. “Yours is in two weeks.”

  


2.

“So, would you say that you have all gotten very close?” The interviewer is obviously fishing, and has been pressing down the same unimaginative path for the past ten minutes. Spencer is tired of it.

He opens his mouth to answer, but Brendon beats him to it. “Yes, very close,” Brendon says, looking solemn and earnest, head bobbing in affirmation. “I think we’re all close, but…”

His hand is suddenly on Spencer’s knee. Spencer blinks at it.

“…I think Spencer and I are the closest. We have a real bond, you know? It’s the drumming. Musically, we’re on the same level. Also he plays Guitar Hero with me.”

The interviewer opens her mouth, like she’s not sure where to go from here. Brendon turns the full force of his smile on Spencer and squeezes his knee.

“We have a real connection. Isn’t that right, Spence?” And before Spencer can think up a response to that, Brendon leans in and plants a chaste kiss on Spencer’s lips right in front of everyone.

The interview drops her pen. Spencer clears his throat, makes a note to kill Brendon later, and says, “I think we’re done here.”

  


3.

“Mmph…nnrgh…phlb… _what are you doing?_ ”

Brendon pauses between smacking loud wet kisses all over Spencer’s mouth to beam at him. “Killing you with kisses,” he announces happily. “You won’t be able to not forgive me after this.”

“You’re supposed…mmm! to kill people wi- blmph…kindness!” Spencer manages to get out in between enthusiastic assaults on his virtue. Clearly Brendon is mixing his adages again.

“Kindness like kisses!” Brendon agrees, continuing his attack. “Kindness and love and kisses!”

Spencer struggles, but Brendon is straddling him and his arms are pinned. “Okay!” he yells desperately. “I forgive you, I’m not mad anymore, you can stop killing me.”

Brendon snuggles into him and kisses him one more time on the cheek, messy and happy. “I knew you would,” he hums, pleased. “You can’t be mad at me for long.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, but he lets Brendon cuddle for a while instead of shoving him onto the floor.

  


4.

“He’s about to look, he’s…wait, not looking yet. Wait, wait, looking! Almost looking!”

“Brendon,” Spencer whispers as fiercely as he can. “Stop trying to set me up.”

“He’s perfect for you. The two of you will get together and make little drummer babies and plant rosebushes together.” Brendon is still peering over Spencer’s shoulder, no doubt imagining himself to be secretive and stealthy.

Spencer is trying very hard not to look, because that would only make this situation worse. “Brendon. I do not have a crush on B-”

“Looking!” Brendon squeaks, and grabs Spencer’s head to smash their lips together in a horrifyingly public display of affection that involves both of their mouths and possibly the tip of Brendon’s tongue. Spencer really doesn’t want to know.

He makes a desperate noise pleading to be released just as Brendon finally pulls back, looking intently over his shoulder. “I think he saw,” Brendon whispers, delighted. “He doesn’t look happy.”

Spencer groans and wonders what he’s ever done in his life to deserve having Brendon as a friend. “Terrific.”

  


5.

Spencer waits until Brendon is worn down at the end of the day and sprawled out on the couch, watching cartoons with glazed eyes. He’s easier to handle when he hasn’t had time to recharge.

Brendon looks up curiously when Spencer settles on top of him, worming his way between Brendon’s spindly legs.

“I mean this one,” Spencer tells him, and before Brendon can ask, Spencer leans down and kisses him.

Brendon starts slow, but he’s quick to catch on, and it heats up faster than Spencer had expected. By the time he pulls away, his lips are tingling and Brendon’s mouth looks even more swollen than usual, flushed red.

Brendon licks his lips in surprise and asks, “What was that for?”

Spencer shrugs. “Everything,” he says, and does it again.


	55. Give

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spencer/Brendon. For disarm_d's pornothon, bondage.

Brendon hasn't been _good_ , exactly, but he's been better than usual, so when Spencer runs the flat of his tongue along Brendon's throat and hears the swallowed sound of pain, he stops and shifts the rope across his neck until it's no longer abrading Brendon's skin.

"Better?" he asks.

Brendon laughs. "Give me a point of reference."

His eyes are dark and unfocused; Spencer had taken his glasses off an hour ago, and without them Brendon is a little less intense, a little lost. His muscles bunch slightly like he wants to shift, but then he remembers and stops. Spencer rewards him with kisses tucked into the soft hair behind his ear.

"I want to fuck you," Spencer says, without really thinking about it, because it's true.

Brendon laughs again, tipping his head back to allow Spencer access to his neck and then stopping, either because he's remembered he's not supposed to move or because the rope draws tight across his throat. "You tied my legs together."

"Later," Spencer replies.

The rope is soft under his fingers, but rough enough that it's leaving Brendon's skin - softer, by far - tinged pink where it rubs. If it were a little gentler, Spencer would tie a loop around Brendon's cock and draw it tight, keep him from coming while Spencer went down on him.

He's playing with the rope and looking down, thinking about trying it anyway and taking it off if necessary, when Brendon's voice puffs in his ear. "Don't you fucking dare."

"Hey," Spencer replies mildly, slapping the end of the rope against Brendon's stomach to watch the muscles jump. "Who's the one tied up here?"

Brendon doesn't answer and doesn't move, breath moving in and out evenly, waiting.

Spencer tugs gently on the rope so it chafes Brendon’s nipples and draws his tongue down the tensed plane of Brendon’s stomach, until the last muscle finally relaxes. He wants to do the same down Brendon’s spine, into the cleft of his ass, but that’s not really convenient in this position. Spencer doesn’t always plan these things far enough ahead, but he usually blames Brendon for distracting him.

“I think I could probably fuck you anyway,” Spencer muses, pondering the logistics of it, rolling Brendon over and just taking him, with lube but possibly without prep just to feel him struggle to take it and choke when the rope pulls taut.

“Spence.”

There’s a very particular tone of voice Brendon has when he begs. It’s not so much the words, because Brendon doesn’t do a lot of ‘please, I need it,’ or if he does it’s because Spencer tells him to and then there’s a whole undercurrent of dripping irony that leaves Spencer exasperated and Brendon often well-fucked. Usually when he gets to the point of begging it’s just soft sounds and repetitions of Spencer’s name, but all in that one tone, like he’s desperate but not urgent, trusting that Spencer will take care of him if he only asks.

Spencer has never once ignored it when Brendon finally begs.

“What do you want?” he asks, and goes down without warning, tongue trailing up the line of Brendon’s cock the same way it had followed the ropes. To his credit, Brendon tenses up but doesn’t move an inch, breathing hard and trusting. It’s enough for Spencer to do it again, and then again.

“Do you want to come?” he asks, and waits for an answer, breathing over the wet lines he’s left on Brendon’s cock. It twitches, but Brendon can’t exactly help that, so Spencer lets it go.

Brendon finally shakes his head, stilling instantly when it chokes him, and forces out, “I just want you.”

Spencer slides his hands under the ropes binding Brendon’s thighs, pulling the whole complicated tangle tighter around him, and then takes Brendon into his mouth and swallows.


	56. Do You Know the Muffin Man?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frank/Gerard

Frank found Gerard amid a dirty sea of dishes in the kitchen, in what looked like some sort of culinary battle zone. He hopped up onto the counter and swiped a little of the unknown mixture from the largest bowl, licking it from his finger.

“Do you know you have flour on your nose?” he asked.

Gerard wrinkled his nose, but didn’t actually wipe the flour off. “Salmonella,” he said instead. “You’re finally healthy for once, don’t tempt fate.”

Frank stuck his tongue out and craned his neck at the print-out Gerard was studying so intently. “What are you making?”

“Muffins.” Gerard said it so sincerely that Frank almost felt bad laughing at him. Almost. Okay, not really. “Fuck off,” Gerard said amiably.

“Seriously, where’s the box?” There had to be a mix or something. Whatever it was, Gerard sure as fuck wasn’t doing it right, because the stuff in the bowl was all lumpy and vaguely orange.

“It’s not from a box, I’m making it from scratch the way my mom did.” Gerard was patiently mixing ingredients, dumping more of them into the batter disaster. “It has apples and carrots and stuff. Oats. It’s vegan.”

“No, seriously,” Frank said. The giggles were starting to return. Gerard gave him a stern look that lost some of its impact due to the flour still smeared crookedly across the bridge of his nose.

“Look it up on the PETA website.” Gerard pushed the recipe over for confirmation. Frank ignored it and ate more out of the bowl.

“I can’t get salmonella if there are no eggs,” Frank pointed out. Gerard rolled his eyes but he was smiling when he did it. Frank kicked him gently from his perch on the counter. “It’s okay, I get it. You’re stress-cooking.”

Gerard looked like he was going to argue, but they were in a haunted mansion with Mikey not speaking to most of them and Gerard still having more really bad days than he had good ones, so he didn’t really have any room. Instead he said, “Stop drinking that, it’s for the muffins.”

Frank arched his eyebrows over the rim of the orange juice carton. He swallowed and licked his lips before he said, “You don’t put juice in muffins.”

“You do in these. No milk, remember?” Gerard stole the carton from him and set it out of the way. Not out of Frank’s reach, exactly, but then Frank could reach most things when he was determined.

Speaking of. “Want to make out?”

Gerard blinked at him. Frank waggled his eyebrows and tried to look lascivious. Gerard slowly smiled. “No waking up Mikey,” he said.

Frank crossed his heart, zipped his lips, and slit his wrists for good measure.

Gerard leaned against the counter and Frank wrapped his legs around Gerard’s waist, tugging him closer. “You smell like muffin mix,” Frank teased, licking Gerard’s cheek.

Gerard got as far as, “I told you, it’s not a m—” before Frank found a better occupation for his mouth.

Gerard tasted like orange juice and raisins; Frank wasn’t the only one sneaking ingredients. Frank licked up all the taste and rubbed his heel along the cleft of Gerard’s ass, while Gerard ran his hands all over Frank’s arms and got flour on his black t-shirt.

Footsteps on the stairs warned them about five seconds before Ray and Bob came into view, and by then Gerard was a respectable distance across the kitchen stirring, although his cheeks were a little pink. Frank kept grinning and didn’t bother trying to hide it.

“What are we doing?” Ray asked interestedly. Gerard was studiously measuring out orange juice into a cup.

“Muffins,” Frank answered. “Gerard is going to ditch us all to become a chef in a four-star restaurant where they only serve breakfast foods. Vegan ones.”

“Fuck off,” Gerard said again, but he was laughing.

Bob was looking at him funny. Frank made doe eyes and batted his lashes. Bob seemed to be impervious, but then he always was.

“Hey Frank,” he said instead. “Do you know you have flour on your nose?”


	57. Art/Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ryan/Gerard, for disarm_d's pornothon.

Ryan starts having dreams about Gerard Way.

It’s normal, he guesses. He’d had a crush for years, sort of, back when he was still a high school kid methodically planning out his life, his dream, his escape plan. He’d listened to the words and been inspired by the vision, and maybe a little by the face behind the words. Maybe a little. He’s never let himself think about guys too much like that, it’s not his thing. But with Gerard it had been more like an attraction to an artistic kindred-spirit, so it’s okay.

The first time he dreams is after stumbling across a picture online, following myspace links from band to band until he suddenly ends up at tour photos and Gerard surrounded by paints, adding colour to the twisted branches of a tree.

He thinks the dream had been more about the tree than it had been Gerard, but Gerard had definitely been there. Ryan remembers. He also wakes up hard, and it’s not just morning wood.

He doesn’t like boys – he’s not like that – but he thinks he might still have a crush.

  


Ryan sits on a stone wall and watches Gerard paint. Sharp angles and shallow curves, the single arc of colour above a thicket of black lines. He thinks he can see it, at one point, the finished picture that will come out of all this, the master design.

Gerard dips his brush into a pot of red and draws a crimson slash across the entire thing.

Ryan cries out _no!_ without thinking, falling-stumbling from the wall. Gerard just looks over his shoulder, bemused. Ryan scrubs at the canvas with his sleeve. He’s ruining his shirt but this is more important, saving the picture, the art. The paint is smearing everywhere and the colours are blurring; it’s only getting worse. _It’s okay,_ Ryan says, to himself and Gerard, still rubbing in desperation. _I can fix this._

Gerard still has the brush in his hand, twirling it between his fingers. He looks amused. _It wasn’t ruined._

Ryan wakes up panting, soaked in sweat but his cock is hard again and he’s not sure if that had been a nightmare or not. It had felt like it at the time, but now he’s not so sure.

  


Ryan draws the spider’s eyes, as he calls them, carefully with his favourite black pencil, tracing the lines he sees in his mind and following them, down into a slow, perfect curve that stops short at exactly the same point as the last. He does the next one with equal care, watching the pencil and his face and the design in his head all at the same time.

For some reason, it’s not strange at all when Gerard props his chin onto Ryan’s shoulder to watch.

 _It’s pretty,_ Gerard says. His eyes are painted too, but smudged and uneven. Ryan’s fingers twitch to fix the blurred line over his left eyelid.

 _Thank you,_ he says instead, because he’s busy with his own makeup right now, and he doesn’t know if Gerard would welcome the help. Gerard hums, and watches Ryan draw another careful line at the corner of his eye, left side to match the right.

He doesn’t move, but their eyes meet in the mirror and suddenly Ryan is seized with complete terror that Gerard is about to reach out and smudge one of the lines, to mess up his design.

He doesn’t. But he holds Ryan’s eyes, like he knows what Ryan’s thinking, and he laughs.

  


Ryan is standing in front of Gerard’s canvas with the paintbrush in his hands. The tree waves its branches back at him, blue-grey and ever-present black, waiting for him to finish it.

 _I can’t,_ he says, but Gerard’s hand is over his, dipping the brush into a pot. He doesn’t even know what colour.

He’s petrified, frozen with fear, but Gerard just lifts his hand until it hovers over the canvas, supporting without pressure or direction, not showing him where to go. _I’ll mess it up,_ Ryan says desperately, but Gerard doesn’t let him go.

He finally forces himself to trace one of the lines that’s already there, barely breathing as he applies the paint, heart pounding in his chest.

 _More,_ Gerard says, and Ryan tries, but his lines are uneven, shaky, the curves all wrong. The tree looks crooked and distressed, and Ryan doesn’t know how Gerard wanted it but he’s sure this isn’t it.

 _I can’t,_ he says again, helplessly. _I can’t._

Gerard doesn’t guide his hand, but he’s still holding Ryan’s wrist, keeping him there. His breath is soft against Ryan’s neck. Ryan stands frozen for longer than he feels should be possible, completely terrified with no idea what to do, and then he thinks…he thinks he sees. He draws a line that doesn’t follow Gerard’s curves, striking out in a different direction, a dark bold purple.

Gerard laughs into his ear and says _yes._

Ryan wakes up and feels good, amazing even, up until he realizes that his boxers are sticky and the sheets are rucked up around his waist, twisted between his legs and damp with sweat. He sneaks to the bathroom when he can finally force himself to move, clammy with shame, praying that no one notices.

  


Gerard is lying on his stomach in the grass, sunglasses on and face pillowed on his hands. Ryan only realizes he’s shirtless when Gerard says, _new canvas._

It should be more frightening than it is, but Ryan has been drawing on Brendon and Spencer and even Jon for months now, so skin isn’t an unfamiliar medium.

He straddles Gerard’s waist and considers, trying to see the design beneath the skin, the painted tattoos waiting to emerge. There are paints by his foot, but he can’t find a brush. Gerard wiggles his hand and says _fingers._

Ryan starts drawing. He draws without thinking, the way he’s seen Gerard paint, trusting that it will be right. Trusting Gerard. He draws until he runs out of skin, up Gerard’s arms and down to the waistband of his pants, and when he can’t find any more space to draw Gerard just rolls over.

It’s different this time, somehow. Gerard sighs when Ryan traces over his ribs, sucks in a breath when Ryan circles of his nipples, smiles when Ryan dips paint into his navel. He’s less a canvas and more a participant, his reactions guiding Ryan’s touch.

Ryan is following the trail of dark hair that leads to Gerard’s waistband when he suddenly realizes what he’s doing and stops. _What are you doing to me?_ he asks.

He can feel Gerard’s laugh in his fingers, through his sun-warmed thighs. _Saving your life._

  


He’s drawing on his own face again, but it’s frustrating. He can’t get the lines right, he’s smudging, crooked, uneven, wrong. He throws down the pencil and Gerard is there, picking it back up. _Trust me,_ Gerard says, and Ryan turns to face him, away from the mirror.

There’s paint on his fingers. Ryan draws lines around Gerard’s eyes and they’re perfect, even when they’re not, and even more so when Gerard smiles. Gerard wipes away the colours from Ryan’s face and Ryan turns back to the mirror, drawing again, quicker this time.

He freezes up right when he’s nearly finished, when he sees what he’s done and for a second it’s all wrong, his stomach drops out and his hands shake and he can’t do this, it’s destroyed, he’s made a mess of everything.

 _Let go,_ Gerard says, and he moves the brush when Ryan can’t, until they’re painting together and it’s right again, it’s better.

 _It’s not perfect,_ Ryan says when they’re finished, looking at what they’ve created. He can still scrub this away and start over, he thinks. He could do it again.

Gerard turns his face with one finger. _It doesn’t have to be,_ he says. And then they kiss.

Ryan wakes up sweating again, but his boxers aren’t sticky this time, and his cock is aching, hot and heavy between his legs. He hesitates, but there are whispers and colours and shapes behind his eyes, so he gives in, reaching inside and stroking, stronger after the first pull, more sure.

He traces lines over his own body, across his chest and down across his stomach, patterns and curves and lines that change direction and arc into something else. He’s not thinking about girls when he does it, and he doesn’t care. His hips stutter and his finger swirls bright and bold around his rib cage, and he thinks _yes_ and hears Gerard, _let go,_ and comes with colours splashing behind his eyelids.

It’s more perfect than anything has felt in a long time.


	58. Displacement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ryan/Brendon
> 
> I seem to have a fascination with Brendon disappearing. Inspired by . AU, of sorts.

“Where’s Brendon?” Jon asks. He’s only been on tour with them for a few weeks now, he still asks the question. He doesn’t know not to.

“Not here,” Spencer answers. Ryan doesn’t say anything. Jon prompts.

“And by not here, you mean…?”

“Not here,” Spencer says again, and the conversation is closed.

  


  


“This didn’t used to be a problem,” Spencer hisses as they take turns pacing in the green room, eight minutes to show time and counting.

“This didn’t used to _happen_ ,” Ryan counters, chewing on his thumbnail. He has his eyes on the clock even though he keeps telling himself not to look.

“Well it’s happening now,” Spencer says, like Ryan doesn’t already know. “This isn’t like with Brent, we can’t just find a new front man, we need…”

“He’ll be here,” Ryan says. He makes it sound like he believes it.

Three minutes to curtain Brendon stumbles in, holding his head. “I know,” he babbles, “I know, I know.”

“Grab your stuff,” Ryan orders. “We’ve got to go.”

  


  


Brendon tries to hold his hand during the interview, and Ryan evades him until he finally runs out of annoying persistence and gives up.

“It’s not a thing,” Brendon says when they climb back onto the bus. “I mean, I know we’re not going public with the relationship, I just wanted…”

“We don’t have a relationship,” Ryan cuts him off. Brendon stops dead, like he’s just smacked into an invisible wall.

“We have…” Brendon begins. Ryan doesn’t let him finish.

“How can we have a relationship when you’re never here?” he asks. He twists the cap off of a water bottle with more savagery than the action deserves.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Brendon asks, lips pressed tight. “I can’t control it. _What do you want me to do?_ ”

Ryan looks away for a minute and doesn’t answer. When he looks back, Brendon is gone.

  


  


“I want to talk about this,” Jon finally says.

Spencer says, “No.”

Jon appeals to Ryan with a look, but Ryan is busy watching the clock, counting the minutes. He’s been gone longer lately, Ryan is almost certain of it. It feels longer, anyway.

 _“Where do you go?”_ Ryan had asked once. _“When you’re not here?”_

Brendon had looked up at the ceiling and said, _“I don’t know.”_

Ryan still doesn’t know if he’d been lying.

One hour, twenty-six minutes.

  


  


Ryan wakes up and his limbs are cold, exposed to the air because the sheet is rumpled somewhere around his waist. The pillow next to him is indented, but not warm.

He stumbles out into the lounge and Jon is there, looking at Ryan like he knows more than any of them have been willing to tell him.

“He’s not here,” Jon says.

Ryan rubs his eyes and sits down on the couch, wrapping his arms around his knees for warmth.

“I know.”

  


  


“What happens when you finally disappear?” Ryan asks. Brendon is watching him silently, unmoving. If Ryan uses his imagination, he can see Brendon flickering in and out like a strobe light, sometimes there and sometimes not.

It doesn’t work like that, though. Brendon is always there, solid and real and warm against Ryan’s skin.

Except for when he isn’t.

Ryan picks at the frayed threads coming loose from the cuff of his pants. He’s not looking anymore, but he can feel that Brendon’s still there, still watching him. It’s enough for him to ask.

“What happens when you don’t come back?”

  


  


Four hours, thirty-two minutes. Ryan wonders when he’ll finally stop counting.


	59. No Exit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon/William/(Gabe)
> 
> For maleyka, who looked at [this picture](http://i21.photobucket.com/albums/b300/AirgiodSLV/JonBasement.jpg) and said something along the lines of, "he looks like he's locked in a basement, anticipating his rescue." This is all her fault.

The door opens and Jon's heart jumps into his throat, but there's a different willowy silhouette on the stairs than the one he was expecting. This one has longer hair, and sways his hips more.

“Jon?” William says in confusion. “What are you doing down here?”

“Oh thank God, Bill.” Jon had been starting to think he was going to die down here, cut off from civilization and sanity, even though it’s only been maybe fifteen minutes.

He’d sent frantic texts to everyone he could think of, _locked in gabes basement pls snd hlp_ , but Ryan had written back, _ha ha_ , Spencer hadn’t answered, and Brendon had just sent, _rly? cool_ so Jon isn’t expecting much help from that quarter. He isn’t yet quite desperate enough to try Pete Wentz.

“Gabe locked me down here,” Jon babbles, clinging to William’s arms. Or trying, anyway, there isn’t a whole lot to cling to. That’s fine though, Jon can deal. He’s used to holding onto boys the size of twigs. Usually it’s trying to keep Ryan and Spencer from strangling Brendon. “He asked if I wanted to come to the basement and I said sure, but I didn’t think he _meant_ it.”

He breaks off as a flash of movement catches his eye, and sees Gabe at the top of the stairs, grinning widely like a really nice, awesome guy. Or like a psychotic killer, and considering the circumstances, Jon is leaning towards the latter.

“Bill,” Jon says slowly, and then the door closes, and the lock clicks, and now they’re both trapped. “What are _you_ doing down here?”

“Cuddle time,” William says cheerfully, like this is a perfectly reasonable answer, and Jon realizes he hasn’t yet let go of William’s skinny little arms. William doesn’t seem to mind, though, because William is nudging him back against the brick wall, and holy fuck, Jon has seen this wall before. He’s seen _William_ in front of this wall before.

Jon contemplates putting his earbuds back in and pretending this is all a bad dream, but William is distracting him with his warm hands and the smell of faintly floral shampoo.

“I have to say, Jon, you had me fooled,” William is saying, and Jon curses himself for getting distracted, because _what?_ William nuzzles his ear, and is way too close for Jon’s peace of mind when he murmurs, “I didn’t think you were the type.”

“The type?” Jon squeaks. Well, he doesn’t really squeak, he says it in a calm, controlled tone of voice, very deep and manly, but some people might mistakenly interpret it as a squeak.

“Cuddling, Jon,” William purrs, and then he’s cradling Jon’s face like he’s delicate, precious, like he’s a _girl,_ and Jon is insulted for a second before he decides hey, that’s actually kind of nice.

Unfortunately, all of the girl-cradling thoughts have distracted him at a critical moment, because now William is kissing him, and Jon appears to be reciprocating. Wait a minute.

“Bill,” Jon tries feebly. “I don’t…I’m not…ohhhh.”

William is apparently very skilled with his mouth. Particularly that thing his lips are doing on Jon’s throat. Jon is content to let the whole creepy basement thing slide for the moment.

“Can you, uh, ahhh.” Jon isn’t doing well with language anymore. Thankfully Bill understands, and the entire experience suddenly gets a lot more pleasurable.

When the basement door swings open this time, Jon very nearly wants to cry.

“You fuckers,” Gabe says, but he’s still beaming, curls forming a riotous halo around his head. He looks like one of those baby cherubs, only with dark hair and possibly evil. “You started without me?”

“Er,” Jon says weakly.

“Mmm,” William opines, which isn’t much of a defense, but his mouth is busy with other things. Hopefully Gabe will forgive him. Jon _definitely_ forgives him.

Gabe sighs, and closes the door behind him. The door makes that same snicking sound, and huh. Maybe they aren’t really locked in at all. Jon hadn’t actually thought to try the door.

“It’s my basement,” Gabe complains. “I’m the one who should be getting the cuddles.”

William leans back and licks his lips. “C’mere,” he murmurs, and Jon spends a little too long dazedly focused on his tongue. “I know how to share.”

Jon’s Sidekick buzzes; it’s Spencer, probably offering rescue. Jon drops it on the floor next to his iPod and prepares to be cuddled.


	60. A Song About Drowning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ryan/Brendon, for maleyka.

“No, Bren, we, I, aaaah!”

It’s not his proudest moment, pushing off of the dock on what Brendon calls “a perfectly respectable raft” that he and Spencer had found at Kmart. Then again, the perfectly respectable raft is made of cheap plastic and had cost $29.99, and Ryan is already privately thinking of this moment as the prelude to a watery death.

The raft tilts manically and Ryan flattens himself against the bottom, clinging for dear life. Brendon crows triumphantly as they embark on their journey across the lake, seemingly unconcerned for his own well-being (and Ryan’s) because he won’t sit _down._

Jon waves cheerfully at them from the shore, bare feet dangling over the edge of the pier.

Jon Walker. He looks so innocent, and then he does nothing to save you when a maniac manhandles you into a rubber raft and drags you off to your doom.

“We could have just gone swimming,” Ryan opines from his place of safety. There’s water sloshing over the side every time Brendon shifts too abruptly, and the front of his shirt is starting to soak through. Bits of lake debris float through the puddle towards him and he’s forced to sit up cautiously just to avoid possible algae and invisible fish slime coming into contact with his face.

“We’ve gone swimming, this is better,” Brendon enthuses. He’s perched like a lookout, scanning the horizon – the lake is not that big, really, there’s not much to scan but water and trees – and vibrating with excitement.

Ryan is just starting to relax as they drift out under the trees, the raft proving lake-worthy thus far, when Brendon lands on him. “Oof,” Ryan manages from his now-familiar spot back at the bottom of the raft.

Brendon nuzzles his hair, and Ryan turns his head a little and smiles. “Thanks for coming with me,” Brendon says softly, like they’re crossing the Pacific Ocean or something instead of floating a few feet away from the shore and the cabin they’re all living in. Ryan rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t mean it.

Brendon nuzzles a little closer, his hand splayed over Ryan’s stomach, and says, “Hey. Hey.” Ryan twitches away from the tickle of Brendon’s nose brushing hair over his ear and shifts a little on the raft, now-wet jeans squeaking on the bottom. It doesn’t do any good, Brendon just shifts with him, still grinning infectiously bright.

“What?” Ryan says patiently, because if he doesn’t Brendon will just keep saying ‘hey’ until Ryan pays attention to him. They’ve played this game before. Brendon pretty much always wins, just by virtue of never giving up.

Brendon just grins wider, and Ryan sighs in exasperation but he doesn’t mean that, either, and Brendon knows it. Their noses bump together, twice, and then Brendon laughs and closes his eyes, and Ryan turns his head to watch the clouds pass overhead.

“You could write a song about this,” Brendon says, breath puffing against Ryan’s neck and the soggy collar of his t-shirt.

“A song about drowning?” Ryan asks doubtfully. He could do it, though, write about the water closing over your head and the smell of death when you can’t inhale. He doesn’t want to do it right now, though. Thinking about drowning when you’ve entrusted your life to a thirty-dollar Kmart raft isn’t good for anyone’s peace of mind. And he’s kind of enjoying this, just drifting on the water, not thinking much about anything. It makes a nice break from all the stuff that’s usually going on in his head.

Brendon laughs, hot air on Ryan’s skin, and suddenly shifts onto his elbow. “Hey,” he says again, and there’s a moment when they’re both looking at each other like that, Brendon half-smiling and Ryan blinking back at him, and then Brendon lunges forward and Ryan jerks backward to avoid a broken nose, and suddenly the raft tips and more water splashes over the side and in they go.

The water is very cold. Lying in a puddle of it on the raft did not prepare him for just how cold it is now, and when Ryan breaks the surface his teeth are already chattering and he comes up cursing.

Brendon is windmilling a few feet away, splashing everywhere and getting Ryan even more wet, but he gets a hand on the overturned raft and Ryan kicks over to join him, not sure how they’re going to haul themselves back in now that they’ve been displaced.

“I can’t believe you,” Ryan manages through blue lips. “Thanks for freezing us to death.” He might be exaggerating the temperature of the water slightly, but seriously, it’s cold.

“You said you wanted to go swimming,” Brendon points out reasonably. He’s still grinning in spite of everything, and his other arm pulls Ryan in, keeping him tucked against Brendon’s chest. It’s not much warmer, considering that Brendon’s just as wet as he is, but Ryan still feels less chilled.

“Fucker,” Ryan says, but he’s smiling too.


	61. Untitled bandsmush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gerard/Panic!

“Um. Hi.”

Jon opens the door to the bus and there’s a sheepish-looking Gerard Way standing outside looking up at them. Spencer peers over his shoulder, curious, and hears Brendon somewhere behind him asking, “Who’s that? What’s going on? Hey, where’s my blue shirt, does anyone know?”

“Hey,” Jon says, at the same time Ryan calls back, “Check under my pillow.” Jon tilts the door a little further closed automatically, as if he can somehow hide Ryan and Brendon back in the bus without being completely rude and slamming the door in Gerard’s face.

They’re running late, which if not usual is at least common enough that no one’s surprised by it, and most of the bands have already packed up and left for the next stop on the tour. Spencer’s a little surprised to see Gerard here, honestly.

“This is a really awkward favour to ask, but I kind of got…left behind.” Gerard looks even more embarrassed now, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear with awkward fingers. “The band’s half an hour ahead, they thought I was with someone else, and…anyway. Do you have room for one more?”

“Sure, of course.” Jon opens up the door again and Gerard climbs in, still looking shy.

“Thanks,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets and looking around.

Brendon appears from the hallway leading from the bunks, shirtless with a bundle of blue material in his hands. “Oh, hey!” he says cheerfully, not sounding confused at all about what the lead singer of MCR is doing on their bus. “What’s up?”

“What’s going on?” Ryan asks, and his eyes widen a little when he sees Gerard. Spencer knows all about Ryan’s puppy-crush on Gerard Way, the t-shirts and the makeup and the way he’ll sit backstage quietly watching their set whenever he gets the chance, soaking it all up. Ryan doesn’t have people he emulates, exactly, he’s too stubbornly original for that, but he definitely has inspirations, and Gerard is one of them.

“I’m hitching a ride,” Gerard answers, and his smile, when it comes, is like the sun breaking from behind the clouds. “Is that okay?”

“Sure, of course! Hey, pull up a seat! Or a cushion, we don’t have a lot of seats, mostly it’s just the couch and the floor, and that one chair, but hey! Take the couch!” Brendon has a way of either driving people completely insane or putting them at ease, and thankfully in Gerard’s case it seems to be the latter.

“Thanks,” Gerard says again, sitting on the edge of their couch, still looking a little uncertain. He doesn’t look all that good, honestly; there are dark circles in his eyes and he’s at least three shades too pale for mid-July.

Spencer opens the refrigerator and hands him a bottle of water, which Gerard thanks him for with another smile, a little less blinding this time. There’s a buzz suddenly filling the air and Gerard fumbles in his pocket for his cell. “Hey,” he says, looking apologetically at all of them, who are still crowded around him staring, and Spencer shoos Ryan towards a seat while he claims the chair next to the window. Brendon lands nearly in his lap a second later, and Spencer grumbles but since Ryan and Jon are with Gerard on the couch, there’s not really anywhere else to sit.

“No, it’s okay,” Gerard is saying, while Brendon scoots around getting comfortable against Spencer’s side and Spencer bats at him in annoyance. “I’ve got a ride, I’m with, um, the Panic. Yeah. No, really, it’s cool. I’ll see you guys tonight.” There’s a long pause, and Gerard ducks his head slightly, like he’s trying to hide behind his hair, before replying to whoever’s on the other end. “Yeah, I should be fine. I can make it until tonight. I’ll take one when I catch up.” Another pause, and then he ends the call with, “Okay. Thanks. Yeah, thanks. Bye.”

Ryan speaks up in the awkward silence that follows, and Spencer knows he doesn’t want to say anything but feels like he should anyway, just in case he can help. “Um, I’ve got some stuff. If you need.”

Gerard smiles again, and it’s more strained but still gracious. “Thanks, I’m fine. I’ll be fine. You don’t, uh…” He stops, and then laughs like he’s suddenly remembered where he is and who he’s with. “No. Never mind.”

There’s no alcohol anywhere on this bus, Spencer is certain, even Jon only drinks on the other buses with Gym Class and the Academy, and he never brings anything back here. They have water and lemonade and energy drinks, and that’s about it. He feels a twinge of pity even though he’s with Ryan when it comes to opinions on drinking and alcohol abuse. Gerard is in for a rough day; according to the tour calendar they won’t be stopping again for another fourteen hours or so, and that’s a long time to go when you’ve been spending your days as inebriated as he has.

“Do you want to do something?” Brendon asks. “We have DVDs and video games, I’ll totally kick your ass at Guitar Hero, or we could plug in Spiro, Jon is getting really good at that.”

“No, I’m okay, thanks.” Gerard’s fingers twist the cap on the water bottle but he doesn’t actually drink, just plays with it, back and forth. “Sorry,” he says suddenly, painfully genuine. “I know this is a pain.”

Jon speaks up then, smiling. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal, honestly. Can we get you something to drink?”

Brendon is playing with Spencer’s hair, twisting the strands and fluffing it through his fingers, but he hops up before Spencer has a chance to smack him away. “Red Bull? I’m getting one anyway.” He gets two cans without even waiting for a response, and plops down on the couch in the nonexistent space between Jon and Gerard, offering one with a grin. “Red Bull gives you wings!”

Jon hauls him back before he spills entirely into Gerard’s lap, snorting. “Not like you need them,” he says, and Brendon uses the stealth move he’s been perfecting lately (so he claims) and licks Jon on the nose.

Gerard looks surprised but not disgusted – how lucky did they get that they’re not harbouring a member of one of the snotty hardcore bands? – and cracks open his can before raising it in a small toast. “Cheers,” he says, and Brendon grins.

Ryan is still staring, hand on his chin like he needs to memorize Gerard at this moment because he’s never going to be this close to him again, and Spencer tries to subtly convey the obviousness of this but Ryan’s completely tuned him out. Jon catches him at it and doesn’t quite muffle the laugh, turning it into a cough when it’s already too late.

“What?” Brendon and Ryan say at the same time, and Brendon cuts in faster than a breath, “You owe me a kiss.”

Spencer stops breathing. Gerard just looks amused. “Isn’t it a coke?” he asks, and Jon starts coughing again.

“We, um, we changed it,” Ryan mumbles, and there’s colour flushing his throat, if you know where to look. “No one could keep track of the cokes anymore.”

Spencer is still struggling to inhale, but Gerard tilts back his head and laughs, unexpected and surprisingly warm. “Do you always pay up?” he asks Ryan, sounding genuinely interested in the answer.

The flush is more obvious this time, creeping over his collarbones and up his neck, but Ryan just shrugs. “Yeah.”

There’s silence, and Spencer suddenly realizes that Gerard is waiting for Ryan to follow through. Ryan seems to realize it at the same time, eyes widening, but Gerard doesn’t say anything, just sits there, and finally Ryan uncurls, slowly like he’s walking the plank of a pirate ship and going to his doom, and slides onto the floor.

Brendon meets him there, slipping off of Jon’s lap like a wriggling fish, landing in a sprawl at Gerard’s feet and still grinning. “Hi,” he says, and Ryan can’t do it, Spencer knows it in his bones, not with someone who isn’t one of them watching, but that’s okay because Brendon can, and does.

It’s a tame kiss, considering it’s the two of them, mostly-chaste with no tongue, and the intimate heat that their kisses always call up seems to be somewhat dimmed. Spencer lets out the breath he’s been holding and it’s a little too loud in the silence; Jon casts a glance over in his direction, amused.

Brendon grins and licks Ryan’s nose.

Gerard laughs again, but whatever he was going to say, whatever Spencer was going to say to cover it, gets cut off in the tinny ring of a cell phone. There’s a patting-down of pockets, general casting-about, and Spencer and Gerard both say, “It’s not me.”

Gerard looks at him, smile slowly widening and stretching his mouth until it’s like the sunshine again, bright and happy. “You owe me a kiss.”

“He’s not a member of the band,” Brendon points out thoughtfully, although he looks intrigued by this development. “Can he do that?”

“I don’t think we ever made a rule about non-band members,” Jon says, shoulders shaking with laughter. “I’m pretty sure he can do that.”

Spencer would say something in his own defense, but he’s pretty sure all that would come out of his throat at this point is a squeak, so he refrains. The ringing stops with Ryan saying, “Hello?” and frowning, apparently oblivious to what’s going on between his best friend and the goth-punk rock singer he’s been crushing on for years now.

“I think Ryan would kill me,” Spencer finally says, which isn’t what he’d meant to say at all, it just comes out.

“Ryan can go next,” Jon says innocently, and Spencer has never disliked Jon before but there’s a first time for everything. He tries to communicate this threat with the power of his glare and Jon just starts laughing again. Bastard.

Gerard folds his hands in his lap, looking at Spencer while Brendon watches with interest from his place at Gerard’s feet, and Ryan curls up a few feet to the side, saying, “Yeah, no, that sounds good.”

Spencer takes a deep breath. “Really going to kill me,” he says for the benefit of anyone listening, and then displaces Brendon to lean forward, hands clenched at his sides because he doesn’t know what to do with them, and kisses Gerard Way. Even thinking it in his head doesn’t make it less surreal.

Ryan’s voice cuts off mid-syllable, and Spencer squeezes his eyes shut and makes it a proper kiss, because he’s damned himself already so he might as well, and hears Gerard’s hum of appreciation juxtapose with the sharp click of Ryan’s teeth.

Spencer pulls back before he gets lost in how warm and soft Gerard’s lips are, and Gerard smiles, like it’s just that easy, and Spencer knows suddenly that he’ll never say a word. He sags back into his chair, relieved and a little turned on, and Brendon promptly hops up and says, “Me next!”

Gerard starts laughing, head tipped back and looking ten times healthier than when he came in the door, and looks over at Jon. “Is it always like this?” he asks, which could mean any number of things, but Spencer has a feeling he knows the real question.

Jon spreads his hands. “Welcome to Panic! at the Disco.”


	62. Instinct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spencer/Brendon, warning for kink.

“Ow.” There’s a pause, while Spencer gives Brendon time to adjust, and then he sinks forward again, slow but inevitable. “Ow motherfucking ow!”

Spencer grits his teeth and pulls out, regretting his impatience when Brendon’s entire body clenches up in pain. He’d never said going mostly dry was going to be easy, but Brendon had agreed readily enough, and Spencer had thought…he doesn’t know what he’d thought.

“Forget it,” he says, and it sounds strange to his own ears, full of rough sounds and a low growl that he swears he doesn’t mean, but Brendon is rolling over in an instant and clinging, stammering apologies when he hasn’t actually done anything wrong.

“No, we’ll try it again, Spence, come on, I can take it. Come on.” His eyes are desperate and earnest, and Spencer caves almost before Brendon has finished his plea.

He rolls Brendon back over to his knees, lines up and pushes forward, and it’s slightly easier this time, but Brendon’s breath still expels in a long, low hiss. It’s the sound of swallowed pain, and Spencer can’t think about it too hard or this all goes to hell.

He waits for a second, as long as he can hold his body back, giving Brendon time before the first thrust. Brendon’s voice is sharp on the consonants, nailing the plosive as he exhales, “ _Fuck._ ”

Spencer doesn’t bother telling him to shut up this time; he claps a hand over Brendon’s mouth and thrusts. The sound Brendon makes is more of a whimper this time, and Spencer rewards him with a different rhythm, shallow and slow. Brendon’s moan vibrates through his palm, and Spencer finally smiles, all teeth as he rakes his fingernails down Brendon’s chest.

He doesn’t know what this is, this itch to get under Brendon’s skin the same way he gets under Spencer’s, the restless feeling he has whenever they end up in bed together and Brendon is a complete hedonist, sprawled across hotel beds and hands roaming everywhere, even across his own skin when Spencer isn’t touching him.

He’d thought for a while that maybe he could fuck it out of his system with other people, but while there’s still a slight pull, whatever-this-is wants Brendon, and sometimes the _want_ he feels when Brendon gets a little too mouthy, a little out of control, is enough to make his teeth ache.

Spencer thrusts in hard enough to push Brendon a few centimeters across the bed, and he senses Brendon’s automatic reaction even before he feels teeth against the skin of his palm. He shoves his hand up, fast, covering the base of Brendon’s nose and cutting off his breathing.

He should have asked for this, he thinks dizzily, he should have said something at least, but Brendon is pulling reactions from him that he’s not even thinking about, just _acting_ on, and this hadn’t been planned. If Brendon so much as twitches, makes the slightest sound, Spencer will let him go in a heartbeat and spend the next hour apologizing in any way he can.

He doesn’t. He’s tense and still, the way Brendon so rarely is, and then he relaxes a bit, just enough for Spencer to feel it all the way through his body. He follows his instincts and moves his hand, lets Brendon breathe and then slides his hand down around Brendon’s throat, squeezing just a little, just enough.

Brendon struggles for a second, not a token play-fight but an earnest bid for freedom, and Spencer curls a hand around his hips and yanks him back onto his cock. He feels the shudder all the way down to his toes, and then Brendon goes limp in his arms, no longer fighting.

He’s not going to be able to hold it together much longer and his hands are full right now, so he leans over to lick Brendon’s ear and whispers, “Touch yourself,” nearly losing it when Brendon does and the friction changes, soft pulses of contract and relax.

Brendon comes half a heartbeat before Spencer, and he knows because the blood is rushing in his ears and he hears the throb between Brendon’s gasp and his own orgasm. He can’t move for a while after, draped across Brendon’s back panting and wondering what the fuck he’s just done, but then Brendon shifts and says tentatively, “Um.”

Spencer moves as quickly as he can with limbs that have been turned to jelly, pulling out and landing on the bed in a flop. His eyes are closed, but he feels Brendon without even needing to look, and when he does Brendon is right there, watching him, nose-to-nose.

“Hi,” Brendon says, and Spencer fights the urge to roll his eyes and just drags Brendon in, waiting patiently until Brendon finishes scooting and squirming and settles against his side.

“Okay?” Spencer asks, which is an odd question to ask after sex, he knows, but he feels like he needs to. Brendon just shrugs and tries to move closer, which shouldn’t be physically possible but somehow he manages.

“I don’t get it,” is what Brendon says a moment later, more insightful than anyone ever gives him credit for. He’s still holding Spencer’s gaze, but not searching or trying to understand, just simply being.

Spencer brushes a stray lock of hair out of Brendon’s face without thinking too hard about what he’s doing and sighs. “I know.”

“I don’t mind, though,” Brendon assures him hastily. “Really, I don’t. It’s cool. It’s your thing, I’m okay with that.”

“Brendon.” Spencer sighs again, but there’s a faint smile curling up the corners of his lips, he knows because Brendon reaches out and touches it. Spencer kisses his fingertip, and if Brendon ever tells anyone about how mushy he is after sex he will deny it forever, but right now it makes Brendon smile, so it’s worth it.

“Do you want to tie me up?” Brendon asks, a bizarre mix of fascinated, cheerful and curious that has Spencer cracking an eye open again to watch him. “Beat me with things? Spankings? Whips and chains?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Spencer growls, and Brendon stops mid-inhale, mouth open and eyes wide. Spencer groans and pulls him close again. “God, just shut _up._ ”

“Okay!” Brendon replies agreeably, muffled against Spencer’s chest. Spencer isn’t going to think too hard about whether that’s agreement or consent, he’s not. He’s just going to relax and maybe take a nap, drift off while Brendon is for once mercifully quiet and not fidgeting. Much.

“Hey,” Brendon whispers suddenly, lips tickling his collarbone. “Spencer.”

“ _What?_ ” Spencer groans. He was almost asleep, he really was.

There’s a pause, punctuated by Brendon wriggling up to eye level, and then… “Do you want to try hot wax?”


	63. Up to no good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mikey/Brendon

Gerard’s fallen asleep on a stack of speakers, and Mikey almost leaves him there, curled up in his black hoodie and loose faded jeans, but it’s been so good lately, everything, and the temptation to prank is just too strong.

He’s kneeling down and trying to figure out if he can do this with a ballpoint pen when someone comes up behind him, shoes squeaking on the concrete floor. He looks familiar, but it still takes a second for Mikey to place him, without the circus get-up and the face-paint. Brendon something, lead singer for that new band Pete had picked out.

“Hey,” Mikey says in the silence that follows, not sure whether Brendon’s going to rat him out or wake Gerard or what. His hand is frozen, hovering over Gerard’s face with unmistakable intent.

Brendon just stands there for another second, then reaches into the pocket of his – lavender – hoodie and hands over a Sharpie.

Mikey quirks an eyebrow, but doesn’t turn down the offer. “Younger brother?” he asks in a whisper.

Brendon’s grin is sudden and blinding. “Youngest of five.”

“Holy shit,” Mikey replies, impressed. He uncaps the Sharpie and hovers again, unsure of where to begin with Gerard’s hair falling protectively over his face.

“Not like that,” Brendon says behind him, much closer than Mikey had expected, kneeling on the floor only a few feet away. “Here, let me…”

The line he draws is crooked but recognizable, the first twirling curl of a ringmaster’s mustache. “Dude, you’re fucking it up,” Mikey whispers when Brendon’s second line doesn’t match the first, the curve wider and more pronounced. “I thought you did this every night.”

“ _Ryan_ does this every night,” Brendon says defensively, but his goatee is much better, and his hand is light; Gerard hasn’t even stirred yet, exhausted from six weeks on the road and dead to the world.

Brendon starts getting creative, bushy eyebrows and sideburns, and Mikey has to stifle his laughter into his sleeve as he holds Gerard’s dark hair out of the way so Brendon can draw.

“Okay, that’s it,” Brendon whispers, and they back off hastily, poised for flight should Gerard wake up and catch them.

He doesn’t.

“You know,” Brendon says thoughtfully, tugging the strings on his hoodie so it closes tighter around his face, “We could probably find a pail of warm water somewhere.”

Mikey looks at Gerard, still sleeping soundly, and the exposed, relaxed curl of his hand draped over the top of the speaker. Temptation is once again too strong to resist, and if Gerard gets pissed – which he will – Mikey can always blame Brendon as a bad influence.

“Okay,” he agrees, grinning. “Let’s do it.”


	64. Cabin Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon/Spencer

“You made me hot chocolate?” Spencer asks in surprise. “Wow, I have the best boyfriend ever.”

“I know.” Jon presses an oversized mug into Spencer’s hands and steals a kiss. Spencer wriggles his toes under the blanket and Jon laughs, dropping down beside him on the loveseat.

“Did you finish the list yet?” Jon asks, sipping from his own mug.

Spencer frowns, blowing steam. “You were serious? I thought it was a joke.”

“No, this is one of those things that all couples have to do when they get serious. It’s like, a requirement.” Jon uses his most earnest tone and tacks the puppy eyes on for good measure. It’s not like he cares, really, but they’ve got the cabin to themselves for a rare hour and nothing better to do.

“Fuck off,” Spencer returns, laughing. Jon is about to tell him they can drop it when he sees the paper sticking out from under the blanket covering Spencer’s lap.

“Oh-ho,” he says triumphantly, stealing the paper while Spencer protests and tries to fight him off one-handed without endangering the cocoa. “What have we here?”

Spencer drops his head against the back of the loveseat, defeated. “I’ve only got two names,” he says. “I know we’re supposed to come up with ten.”

“Hey, but these are good names,” Jon points out. He uncaps the pen as Spencer reclaims the list and leans over to write his name down in neatly-printed letters. _Jon Walker, bassist for world-famous rock band Panic! at the Disco_. “There, now you’ve got three.”

“You can’t be on this list,” Spencer argues, while Jon recaps the pen and does his best to look adorable and sincere. “I’m serious, that defeats, like, the whole point of the list.”

“I’m a celebrity, it totally counts,” Jon assures him, and Spencer smacks him over the head with a throw pillow.

Brendon and Ryan spill in through the front door as Jon is taking defensive action, fingertips digging into the spot right above Spencer’s hipbone that makes him squirm, and Brendon promptly drops his coat on the floor and drapes himself over Jon’s shoulders and the back of the loveseat. “Hey, what are we doing?”

They’re both really good about giving Jon and Spencer alone time, but the rest of the day is considered fair game, and Brendon has no qualms about boyfriend-stealing when he decides it’s his turn. It’s a good thing Spencer doesn’t mind sharing.

“Making lists,” Jon explains, tilting his head so Brendon can nuzzle closer and look over his shoulder. “People we’d be allowed to fuck if we met them.”

“Ooh,” Brendon hums, and then he’s stealing Spencer’s list from his lap – “Brendon!” – and snorting. “Patrick Swayze? Isn’t he, like, fifty?”

“Shut up,” Spencer mutters, cheeks pink. Jon laughs, and feels Brendon grinning next to his ear, against his skin.

Ryan finishes shedding his winter-wear and loops his scarf over the hook by the door. “And David Bowie, right?” he asks.

“How did you know?” Brendon asks, and Ryan just smirks and walks down the hall towards the bedrooms. Spencer groans and holds up a finger after him.

“Long-time crush?” Jon asks innocently. The finger redirects itself instantaneously.

“Hey,” Brendon says insistently, tugging at Spencer’s list again. “Wait, where am I on these?”

“You’re _not,_ ” Spencer tells him firmly. Jon ducks when Spencer pulls the list away and Brendon tries to reach it over his head.

“But Jon’s on there! If Jon’s on there, I should be on there. Shouldn’t I?” Brendon sounds honestly hurt, and Jon is biting his lip to keep from laughing. “World-famous singer for Panic! at the Disco. Dead sexy, Ryan said so! Blowjob lips!”

“Jon,” Spencer says levelly, giving up on foiling Brendon for the moment and stretching his arms back over his head. “I’ve got the sudden urge to cross someone off my list. You know. To make room for Brendon.”

Jon only needs a moment to fully absorb the gleam in Spencer’s eye before he pulls out his wallet, digging for the hand-printed cards he’s kept in there since Christmas. He takes a second to rifle through them and passes one back over his shoulder to Brendon, who makes a noise of wounded disappointment.

“You guys just had, like, two hours,” he protests, while Jon tucks _This coupon is good for one hour of private time, no questions asked_ back into his wallet. “Why couldn’t you have had sex then?”

“Brendon,” Spencer warns, and the warm weight on Jon’s back slithers away.

“Ryan!” Brendon calls down the hallway, scooping his coat off of the floor. “Ryan, they’re kicking us out!”

“Number three?” Jon inquires pleasantly, while Ryan throws them both a death glare on his way to the door.

Spencer wraps an arm around Jon and pulls him down for a kiss. “I have the best boyfriend _ever._ ”


	65. the evening sleeps so peacefully

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ryan/Brendon

The doctor’s verdict is laryngitis, and Brendon is on vocal rest until further notice. Ryan had thought he would forget, that they’d all be constantly reminding him not to talk, but it’s possible he’s underestimated how seriously Brendon takes his voice and the band. Brendon hasn’t said a thing for days, beyond the occasional whispered request when he can’t communicate any other way, and those times, too, are less often than Ryan would have expected.

They’ve all developed a shorthand with each other anyway, for the times when someone has earbuds in and music playing, or there’s a serious movie on, or one or more of them has fallen asleep in the lounge. It’s not sign language, exactly, it’s more body language with a hint of telepathy.

Ryan had been relieved at the idea of a few days without Brendon’s chattering, but he’s finding now that he misses it. Brendon’s not withdrawn, exactly, but he’s definitely muted around the edges, more introspective and less spastic. He’s lying on the couch now, head in Ryan’s lap, watching a program about alligators on the Discovery channel while Ryan absently combs fingers through his hair.

Brendon looks up suddenly and quirks an eyebrow, and Ryan realizes his stomach just rumbled. “Not yet,” he says in response to Brendon’s unspoken question. “Unless you want something.”

Brendon shakes his head and goes back to watching, and Ryan leans back a little, eyes on the television, still sifting through Brendon’s hair. He pauses when they get to a commercial, asks, “Tea?” and doesn’t relent when Brendon makes a face. He nods, though, and shifts around to sit up so Ryan can stand and get a mug.

They’ve got the coffeemaker going 24/7 lately, filled with hot water so Brendon can keep drinking herbal remedies and honey-lemon, so it only takes Ryan a minute to pour some over the little sachet and bring it back to the couch. Brendon cups the mug in his hands and blows, sending ripples of steam skittering away from the surface. Ryan watches his mouth, and looks away before Brendon can catch his eyes.

Brendon slides back down and puts his head in Ryan’s lap again, balancing the mug carefully to keep from spilling and tilting his head occasionally to take small sips. Ryan has stopped watching the program at some point and is watching Brendon’s profile, and the tuft of dark hair curled around his fingers.

Brendon sighs and clicks off the television even though the program isn’t over, setting his mug down on the worn carpet and rolling onto his back to look up at Ryan. Ryan tucks Brendon’s scarf around his neck again and his lips quirk up a little, just on one side. “Hey, don’t mention it,” Ryan says, and then they’re both smiling.

Brendon pushes his glasses back up, rubs the bridge of his nose and looks, for the first time in days, like he has something to say but doesn’t know how to say it. Maybe it’s not something he’d say with words anyway, Ryan doesn’t know. Brendon communicates with his entire body, vocal inflection and physical contact, and having one of those taken away just means that sometimes it’s harder to tell what’s missing.

Ryan’s fidgeting. He hates that, it’s usually Brendon doing the fidgeting, or at least being more obvious about it so no one notices Ryan doing it. He speaks because it hasn’t been awkward until now, and suddenly it is. “Hey, do you wanna…?”

Brendon shakes his head, laughing voicelessly, and Ryan pokes him. “Fucker.” Brendon mimes a wounded expression, clutching his chest, and Ryan says, “You’re not _that_ sick.”

It all goes still again very suddenly, unexpectedly, and Ryan isn’t really prepared for the silence. He doesn’t know what he’s doing when he leans over, isn’t thinking about it when he does, but Brendon is reading his mind again, apparently, finger against his lips and stopping Ryan’s progress only inches away with what looks like regret.

Ryan sits back, instantly feeling like a complete douche, shifting around and wishing Brendon wasn’t still on his lap. Brendon frowns, fumbles around on the floor and holds up his pill bottle, pointing at the plain-type print near the bottom.

“Five to seven days,” Ryan says out loud slowly, and thinks _oh, right, contagious._ Brendon grins, nodding emphatically. Ryan looks away, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck, feeling foolish but just a little giddy.

“Okay,” Ryan says. “Yeah, okay.”


	66. Cover-Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon/Spencer, Brendon/Ryan

It takes Jon a while to figure it out, but it's not like he was expecting it or anything. He doesn't know who could have been.

"Spencer," he says finally, watching Brendon skip down the sidewalk with Ryan's hand in his, Zack following behind them like a tolerant chaperone, "Are they fronting for us?"

Spencer looks innocent and uncomprehending. Jon doesn't believe it for a minute, but Spencer's hair is sticking up in tufts and it's pretty adorable anyway.

"They are, aren't they?" Jon confirms. "They're making a production out of hanging out together to take the heat off us."

"Brendon makes a production out of everything," Spencer points out. He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear and Jon has to resist the urge to lick him. Even Ryan and Brendon probably couldn't cover for that.

"But seriously," Jon presses. "The hand-holding, the goofy looks, the prom night poses for publicity shots..."

Spencer has the grace to look embarrassed. "It was Brendon's idea," he says. "He didn't want us to feel pressured by the media or the fans or anything."

Jon feels like he owes Brendon a Red Bull or two. Maybe even a venti latte the next time they allow him to have Starbucks. "And Ryan doesn't mind?" he asks, watching their bandmates run smack into a cluster of fans and Brendon's arm wrap automatically around Ryan's waist while they start signing things.

Spencer looks even more embarrassed. The tips of his ears actually turn pink. Jon is reconsidering testing Ryan and Brendon's powers of distraction in light of how adorable Spencer is when he blushes.

"Ryan is sort of encouraging it," Spencer admits, and Jon's eyes widen. Oh. _Oh._

"Does Brendon know?" Jon asks, and Spencer hesitates, then shakes his head.

Brendon is currently nuzzling Ryan's neck while Ryan pretends not to notice him and says something to a girl only slightly shorter than he is. Jon doesn't think Brendon would mind all that much.

"Hey. You're not complaining, are you?" Spencer asks. His pinkie finger is brushing Jon's wrist, one of their signals for stealing a kiss they can't have in public.

Jon has seen enough pictures and video clips (who knew the camera was running that early?) to personally believe that while Brendon and Ryan may be more obvious, it's hard to miss the way Spencer looks at him and smiles. He's not telling Spencer, though. Jon isn't going to risk losing a single one of those smiles.

He's getting a similar look right now, slightly apprehensive but hopeful, so he returns it with a smile. His shoulder bumps Spencer's, another signal, and they both know what it means. "Not at all."


	67. Starstruck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabe/William

There’s a certain danger in sharing the stage with William. Gabe likes to think of it as a calculated risk, one he knows going in but has weighed the pros and cons of and decided in favour. It’s not like he could do anything else anyway, not with William backstage getting ready for the Academy set and Cobra Starship onstage and the audience waiting – even if they don’t realize it – for William’s voice to soar out over the first verse of Snakes on a Plane.

Gabe has never doubted his own charisma, knows he can charm a crowd with a few words and the right strut, but William has something else, something that draws attention to him from the minute he hits the stage, bandana around one knee and fingers curling over the mic cord like a lover.

He’s seen it happen with Gym Class Heroes, the girls losing their voices screaming before William has even made it across the stage to hug Travis and belt out the first line. William steals microphones – although he always makes sure you get it back before you need to sing – and slinks across the stage, hypnotizing the audience with his voice and his hands and his hips, and by the second chorus they’ve forgotten the name of the band they’re seeing, forgotten everything but William.

So it’s a risk, bringing him onstage during a set, because he wins over the crowd in a handful of heartbeats and nothing is the same after that, even once he’s left. But Gabe thinks it’s worth it.

  


There’s a different danger in sharing your bed with William, limbs sprawled everywhere and tongues tangling, lost in kisses that taste like six different kinds of liquor and something beneath that Gabe is always chasing. The risk is less calculated but no less present, and it’s usually not even one he thinks of until the morning after, every time.

He still likes girls, of course he does, and boys too, but he’s starting to forget what they feel like beneath him, the way they sound breathing whispers into his ear. They’ve been on tour for weeks and Gabe can count the number of times he’s gone to bed alone on one hand, usually because he’s passed out on a bus or at a party and crashed on someone else’s couch. He doesn’t remember what it’s like to wake up without William’s sweat on his sheets, and the scent of shampoo in his shower that isn’t eucalyptus.

William winds himself around Gabe at night and says things that Gabe doesn’t think he remembers in the morning, words that could be feelings or song lyrics or just words, spilling over Gabe’s skin and into the cracks, and William is just as beautiful when his voice breaks and his back arches as he is in the spotlight, soaring over the cacophony of drums and guitar.

William is a touch whore, and Gabe’s just as bad, so if they’re more tactile with each other it makes sense, and it’s impossible not to look when William comes onstage, when they collide and break apart again and William’s voice takes over where Gabe’s drops off. It’s just as impossible not to pull him down long afterwards, to taste and touch and feel William’s breath shudder out with Gabe’s fingers splayed between his ribs.

They’ve got less than a week left on tour and William is still waking up in his bed, sleepy-eyed and stretched out like a lanky cat, licking Gabe’s throat and looking for coffee. Gabe still thinks it’s worth it.


	68. Caesura

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spencer/William

It's raining outside. Spencer makes a run for the Academy bus because it's closest, water spattering over his t-shirt and jean cuffs.

William is the only one on the bus when Spencer enters, shaking the rain out of his hair. He pauses in the middle of pouring a drink, finishes and slides it inquiringly an inch across the table towards Spencer. It's some imported beer, honey-light. The guys have been drinking it for the past few nights.

Spencer shakes his head, says, "Ryan."

William retrieves the glass to toast him with it, and replies, "Gabe."

Spencer takes a seat across from William at the battered table without being invited, because he knows the invitation is always open. His wrist finds something sticky on the surface, tacky and not yet dried.

William tips his chair back on two legs, one foot hooked behind the table leg to keep him from falling, and reaches behind him to pull one of the ever-present bottles of water from the mini-fridge. This time Spencer doesn't turn it down.

He watches the rain fall for a while, a gloomy drizzle that makes everything look like it's behind a haze. William has music in his head, barely breathing snatches of something, fingers twitching against the tabletop as if itching for a pen. Spencer has seen Ryan wear that look before, chewing on pencils and pushing crinkled notebooks across Spencer's bed back home for him to look at.

Ryan probably isn't writing now. Ryan takes time to overthink everything, puts the pieces together meticulously and makes sure every one fits. William writes music like he breathes, liquid and effortless, song after song after song. Spencer has heard him improv riffs drunk at 4 AM that another band would kill to have, and forget about them in the morning, chasing another melody.

William exhales something that's almost a tune, drifting and brief, and when he turns his head to meet Spencer's eyes with a rueful little smile, Spencer realizes he isn't watching the rain anymore.

There's something almost like a question in William's eyes, but he just shrugs and reaches for his drink, still sitting untouched in the middle of the table, one finger absently tapping the table as if he can catch a rhythm from Spencer just by being near.

Spencer reaches without thinking about it, hand closing over William's around the glass. William raises his eyebrows, and the question Spencer had seen before becomes a name, one he doesn't say out loud but Spencer can hear it all the same.

He shakes his head and says another.


End file.
